


A Few Words for the Living

by DarkLady38



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, a love song to the gay children of IT, an homage to some of my favorite shows, bc they have lots of feelings!, eddie-and-ritchie-centric, good ol' fashioned detective story, i don't know how to tag, lots of inside jokes for other fandoms, richie tozier says gay rights, see how many references you can count!, slow burn/pining, the losers go to therapy, with a killer clown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-10-18 23:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 70,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20647154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLady38/pseuds/DarkLady38
Summary: The Losers come back to Derry for their second showdown with Pennywise, where they cross paths with two Federal agents investigating the disappearances. When the Losers and the forensic psychiatrist and the agent team up, will they be able to make it out unscathed—and will they be able to maybe, for once, be honest with themselves about who they are and what they want?





	1. The Leavers

**Author's Note:**

> “The Remainers are leaving their homely places  
With excited faces, drawn to the night  
Preparing their minds for a break from the sensible life  
As the leavers bring with them their noise and light, their wild wonder cure-all of crazy religion  
In one sacred ritual  
Unmasked and undressed  
We all come together  
We’re all one tonight.”

The boy with the glasses was back again, Eddie Kaspbrak thought. He was sitting on the floor of the bathroom of his office, head in his hands, struggling to breathe. It was a dream with the flavor of a memory, something brought back from the haze of childhood. A pale young man with curly, dark hair, tall and gangly, had been haunting him since...well, now, that was tricky. 

College, it had to be. ’88...no, ’92. 

Frustrated with the fogginess descending on his mind, he took a pull of his inhaler, hacked a couple brief coughs. 

’91. ’91 for sure, he decided. Someone he’d seen. Someone from the street, a classmate, a kid in a photograph. Someone he knew when he was sixteen, seventeen, however old the boy was. Whoever he was, he was Eddie’s nightly visitor, popping up almost every time he closed his eyes. The dreams were frustratingly vague—a companionable silence, an electric brush of hands, a flood of rippling, carefree laughter. Eddie couldn’t remember ever being as happy as he seemed to be in those dreams. 

He couldn’t wait for them to go away. 

It was nice, of course, to have those fifteen minutes of pleasure. But he couldn’t stand waking up afterwards, feeling-whoever-the-fuck-he-was recede and opening his eyes to see Myra’s slack face on the pillow next to him. Even more embarrassing was how he woke up: confused, shocked, and aroused, like a teenager mid-makeout session. Every time he thought he’d successfully numbed himself to the heartbreaking disappointment of his life, that goddamn dream-kid showed up and made him feel—what? Strong? Important? Desired?

Loved?

God. What a joke.

Eddie Kaspbrak was an adult, and adults understood that the heady mix of love and joy and excitement he felt was nothing more than a golden dream in the minds of teenagers, not something to be pursued as an adult. Life wasn’t about exhilaration. It was about making it through the day. Anything above that was a risk, and Eddie had never been much of a risk-taker. And Myra, of course, wasn’t much of a risk. 

Eddie pulled himself up from the floor and grabbed the quilt and pillow from the bathtub. His large office, with its full bathroom, complete with shower and bathtub, had become his sanctuary. Myra made a lot of noise about him coming in late, but just so long as he was keeping up their cushy lifestyle, she didn’t put up much of a fight. Eddie took his time along where he could get it, but eventually, he always had to come home. 

Myra, of course, was primed and ready for a meltdown the moment Eddie opened the door. At the first ring of her reedy, plaintive voice, the gauzy residue of his dream dissipated. There was nothing to it, just her usual Eddie where were yous and I was worried sicks. He didn’t put up much of a fight anymore—not that he ever had, if he was being honest with himself—preferring, instead, to go limp and let her wash over him. He didn’t ask what the pills she pressed into his hand were. He simply swallowed them dry and prepared for their effects, be they pleasant or unpleasant. She didn’t kiss him in greeting, and he didn’t want her to. He never felt more ill than when she was in direct contact with him. One week later, someone would tell him, “when you lie to yourself, you lie to everyone.” That was, of course, what his life felt like. A lie he couldn’t stop telling, because if he did, everything would come crashing down, revealing—

Revealing what? 

In the background, Myra’s voice descended into a wordless, animal bleat. Something awful, Eddie thought. If I can’t remember it, I’ve probably repressed some kind of trauma. I must’ve been ill. Cancer, maybe. Or a car accident. Head trauma could explain why the time before college has always been...blurry. It’s best that I don’t remember. Forget the unpleasant things.  
But, of course, I’m also forgetting the boy.

The boy in Eddie’s dreams could’ve been seventeen or eighteen, maybe younger, maybe older. He was tall but awkward, like he wasn’t used to the extra length in his limbs. Eddie felt young in those dreams too, full of hope and glory.

“Edward Kaspbrak! Are you listening to me?” 

Myra’s ejaculation was somewhere between a screech and a bellow. Eddie started, moving a step back. He’d never considered her a physical threat before, but just then, as she stood over him, he felt his smallness acutely. “I think you need something to put you to sleep. You’re working too hard, Edward. Your constitution can’t take it. You’re delicate, remember?”

He nodded mutely, and remained pliant while she pressed a handful of pills into his hands. He never examined them, never looked them up, never exercised any critical thinking about whether or not to take them. Some made him feel better, and some made him feel worse, but he didn’t keep track. They were the price of peace. Whether it was the yellowish circles that wrapped his brain in velvet sheets, or the poppyseed-red sleeping pills that transformed his limbs to lead every night before slipping to a realm of half-formed thoughts, unarticulated memories, and desires only able to be expressed in dreams. 

“Finish with your work, Edward,” Myra admonished. “Then it’s time for bed.”

She was still angry, which was good, because it meant that she wouldn’t try to touch him. In almost ten years of marriage, they had never had vaginal intercourse, a fact for which he was so dizzyingly thankful that he could hardly express it. It was blatantly obvious that she was his nurse, not his wife, and, beyond her occasional, patronizing attempts at a handjob, their relationship would not have violated any hospital ordinances. His only relief came from the poster.

The poster was, unquestionably, both the most embarrassing and the most necessary thing in his life. He had stolen it from work and kept it in a Ziploc bag in the toilet bowl, accessible only with a pair of surgical gloves and copious amounts of hand sanitizer. Far from ideal, obviously, but it was the only place that he could be certain that Myra wouldn’t find it. Eddie wasn’t sure why he was so protective of it—it was just a flyer for a low-rent comedy act at some dive bar in the Village, proclaiming in bold letters:

COMEDY NITE AT LUTECE LIQUORS FEATURING “TRASHMOUTH” TOZIER!

It was nothing he ever would’ve gone to, certainly not with Myra. Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier was foulmouthed and crude and the only thing that could give him an erection. It was an absolute mystery, because Richie Tozier was fairly average-looking, neither fat nor too skinny, with a slight receding hairline and hunched posture, and nobody talked about him or thought about him too much, either in Eddie’s almost-nonexistent social life or on the internet—except, of course, for Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Very carefully, on feather-light feet, Eddie crept into the bathroom and, after making sure the coast was clear, locked the door behind him. Once, during his alone-time with “Trashmouth” Tozier, Myra had come out of their bedroom and banged on the door, demanding to know what was taking him so long. It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat. 

Tonight, Eddie was desperate. He had very little time before whatever pills Myra had given him started rampaging through his system, and he preferred to spend his time with Richie sober. After a religiously thorough handwashing, Eddie laid the poster down on the floor and, after, unzipping his pants and pushing down his briefs, took himself in hand and closed his eyes. He imagined that he was kneeling in front of Richie Tozier, who was petting his hair, caressing his chest gently, touching him tenderly and with kindness. A thumb swept across his lower lip, and Richie then took his chin in a hand, directing him to look up. 

“You’re so beautiful, Eds,” Dream-Richie said softly, which was silly, because nobody called him Eds, and certainly nobody called him beautiful. Dream-Richie’s hand hovered at the fly of his crappy, worn jeans. “Are you sure you want this, baby?” 

“Yes, Richie,” Eddie whispered to himself. Dream-Richie ran a gentle hand through his hair before unzipping his fly. Eddie imagined pulling down Richie’s pants and boxers, giving his beautiful cock a few gentle strokes before wrapping his lips around the head, pushing back his foreskin to lick up the pearls of precum dripping from his slit. Eddie stripped his cock faster, imagining Richie’s hands sinking deeper into his hair, his aroused moans, mumbled praise. 

“Oh, yes, Eds, you’re so good, so sweet, so fucking beautiful, my sweet, sweet Eddie…”

Eddie came into a clump of toilet paper with a soft gasp. After taking a few moments to gather himself, he wet some paper towels, cleaned himself up, carefully replaced the poster, and exited the bathroom, only to almost bump into Myra.

“Edward, are you sick? You were in there an awful long time! You’re so flushed! Do you have a fever?”

Eddie couldn’t stop himself from shuddering as Myra placed a hand on his forehead. He didn’t want her touching him. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Here, sweetheart, let me give you a bath, cool you down—”

“No!”

The sharpness in his voice startled them both. “Myra, I just want to go to bed. Okay?”

She opened her mouth to argue, and Eddie opened his mouth to apologize, but before either of them could speak,— the phone rang. 

“I’ll get it,” he sighed. “Kaspbrak residence.” 

A pause, and then, for the first time in years: 

“Mike?”


	2. Is It Someone New?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two federal agents arrive in Derry as Mike Hanlon prepares for the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I have read all your letters.  
I know what you contain.  
I have dreamt your dreams.  
My head is haunted,  
My head is haunted…”

It was five in the morning, and Roxanne Little, M.D., P.h.D. was in great pain. She was leaning on her cane, both hands clasped over the wooden knob, which was engraved with the sign of the scorpion, her zodiac sign, encircled by an ouroboros. She was only thirty-eight, but her body ached like an old woman’s. She would’ve liked to have been laying in her bathtub, instead of standing in the blistering cold in the very early morning, looking at the front yard of 1779 Macadam Street and wondering how an eleven year old girl could disappear in broad daylight, but nobody gets what they want all the time. 

“Agent Little, I’m so glad you’re here,” the deputy beside her bleated. “We’re just all out of ideas and…” 

She ignored him. The parents were alcoholics, that much was obvious. Nobody but an addict could not notice their child was missing for 32 hours, and there was no evidence of illegal drug use, but plenty of Bacardi empties. No blood, no hair, no fibers. Missing jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. Daisy Saunders had left of her own free will. After she left the house, of course, nothing was certain. 

Roxanne turned and, with great difficulty, began walking along the edge of the property. She was scanning for tracks while slowly making her way towards the figure watching from the adjoining vacant lot. The watcher was tall and thin, with graying, close-cropped hair. He wore a threadbare cardigan and khakis. She sidled up next to him, but didn’t speak. 

“It’s happening again,” he said. His voice was hoarse and tired. “Twenty-seven years, and it’s happening again.”

“You were here then?” 

He nodded. “I was fourteen when it ended.”

“Your name?” 

“Mike Hanlon. I’m the head librarian at the Derry Public Library.”

“Roxanne Little. I work for the FBI.”

“You’re an agent?”

“No, I’m a forensic psychiatrist. A desk jockey. Why?”

“I’m just surprised that the FBI is sending its people all the way out to Derry. Our police department isn’t the kind to ask for government help.” 

“Yeah. Well, more than three linked murders puts the case in our jurisdiction. So they sent me.” 

“Did you do something to piss them off?” 

It was a joke, but it hit Roxanne funny. Her mouth snapped shut, and she closed her eyes. 

“Yeah. I guess so. Look, Mr. Hanlon, no disrespect, but you might want to stop hanging out at crime scenes. It’s a small town, and these cops are awful eager to have someone to pin this on.”

“You don’t suspect me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Roxanne sighed. “You were fourteen when the first murders occurred. While it’s not impossible for a fourteen year old to kill multiple people, it would be almost impossible for someone that young to leave so little evidence. Moreover, the killer is sophisticated enough to stay undetected for almost thirty years. Someone that organized wouldn’t hang out at his crime scenes in front of the cops.”

Mike gave her a tired smile. “So, you think a person’s doing this.”

“Who else is there?”

Mike shrugged. “A monster.” 

“At first blush, realizing that monsters don’t exist seems like a relief. But realizing that regular people, just like you and me, can do so much evil is much worse than ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties. I’d rather face down killer clowns from outer space than myself.”

Mike started, then chuckled.   
“Far safer through an Abbey gallop,  
The stones achase,  
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter  
In lonesome place.  
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,  
Should startle most;  
Assassin, hid in our apartment,  
Be horror's least,” he recited. 

“You know your Dickinson,” Roxanne laughed. “I didn’t know they taught Masshole poets in Maine.”

They stood for a few more moments in silence before Roxanne turned to go. “I’ve got to get back,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you later. If the perpetrator was younger last time, maybe he made a mistake. I’d like you to tell me what you remember.” 

Mike laughed ruefully and nodded. 

“Yeah, okay. You know where to find me.” 

***

In Room 107 of the Derry Fairfield Inn and Suites, Roxanne ran a bath and turned out the lights. She stripped down and, with some difficulty, lowered herself into the water. It wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold—just the right temperature to forget where she ended and the water began. This was how she tried to empty herself out and become a receptacle for the evidence, but her brain wasn’t cooperating. Her admission to the librarian was bothering her. Whatever she might tell herself, when she really got down to it, she wasn’t a cop. Just a whole lot of book learning and a handful of lockpicks. New Mexico had proved that much, at the very least. 

Floating on her back in the rapidly cooling water, Roxanne fought the urge to scream. She’d never asked them to pin all their hopes on her. All the shit they talked—oh, Roxanne Little, never lost an unsub, interviews serial killers without handcuffs, let the Chesapeake Ripper chew on her so that she could bring him in, ooh la la—she’d never participated in it. They were the ones who hadn’t taken it seriously. Send in the cranky, smart cripple to show those DEA knuckle draggers what to do, and we’ll be all set. 

Thinking such troubled and uneasy thoughts, she sank into a fitful doze for what could’ve been minutes or hours, until the light flicked on and the door flew open. Her partner stood in the doorway, hands full of grocery bags. 

“Chelle,” Roxanne said. “Your hands are full. Lemme do both sides of the conversation. ‘Roxanne, you said that you’d stop falling asleep in the bathtub!’ Chelle, I was just resting my eyes!”

S.S.A Michelle Johnson put down the bags and crossed her arms. After a beat, she raised her hands and began to sign.

“How’s your pain?” 

“It’s been worse.” 

Michelle sighed. 

“I’m sorry, Rosie.” 

They sat there for a moment in silence, rapidly-cooling water plinking off Roxanne’s skin and hair into the tub. “Here. Let me help you up.” 

Michelle reached one arm under Roxanne’s bent legs, wrapped the other around her back, and lifted with an inaudible grunt, and carried her for a few steps before gently sitting her down. She then stepped back, looking lovingly at the bare back of her wife. 

Roxanne had changed little from the first time Michelle had seen her without clothes all those years ago, in the summer of ’87. She had lost fat from her hips and breasts, and she had become harder and more angular, but the sinuous arch of her spine remained the same, as had her long, lithe, shapely legs. Age had flayed the baby fat from her cheeks, revealing sharp cheekbones, a chin like an arrowhead, and a nose as from a Greek statue. Her breasts, small, taut, and capped with puffy, bubble-gum pink nipples, still pointed directly out, and her ass was still a pair of perfect, tiny spheres. We blossom and flourish like leaves on a tree, Michelle thought fondly, and wither, and perish, but naught changes thee.

Except for the scars, of course. Despite ostensibly being a desk jockey, Roxanne collected scars like some people collect stamps or baseball cards. There was the ridge on her back from where her dissertation supervisor had stabbed her with a pair of poultry shears, the two fingers her dissertation supervisor had bitten off of her right hand, the jagged slashes on her forearms from when she had jumped out of a third-floor cupola window to get away from her dissertation supervisor, two ensuing knee replacement scars, electrical burns on her knees, elbows, and palms, white lines of scarring on her temple, and a dash on her cheek from being grazed by a bullet. Her body was marked by the cases she’d worked, the people that she’d risked her life for. Michelle watched as Roxanne shrugged on her oversized sleeping shirt (emblazoned with the legend OPUS FOR PRESIDENT) and walked towards the giant map of Derry hung on the wall, stuck with colored pins and covered in nearly-illegible notes. 

“Something weird’s going on in this town, Roxanne. Violent crime is 50% higher than average. Domestic abuse, child abuse, hate crimes, missing persons...by just about every metric, Derry is just that much more evil than the average small town.”

“No, no, no. That’s not possible. There must be some kind of mass shooting or something like that throwing these numbers off—”

“I’ve controlled for that. The numbers are still crazy high.”

Roxanne stuttered for a moment, then shook her head. 

“Must be something in the water,” she sighed. “Okay. This is what we know. Three disappearances. No geographical pattern. Two girls, one boy. Two Caucasians, one African American, so no gender or racial pattern. No signs of a struggle. No witnesses. No physical evidence.” 

“Three disappearances and nobody saw a thing?” 

“I know. You’d think people would be on guard.” Roxanne scratched the scar on her elbow absently. “You know what’s weird? It’s like nothing’s changed here. The cigarettes, kids hanging out in sewers, in the park at all hours of the night...I mean, it reminds me of when we were kids, but that was the eighties, how we used to spend the night in Cowen Park, sleeping under the overpass, walking the Ave late at night, and stealing cigarettes from my dad. Everywhere else, it’s totally changed. Kids don’t wander around on their own, nobody smokes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But here, it’s like nothing’s changed. From homophobic hate crimes to racist attacks to alcohol and tobacco consumption, there’s been no progress. Everything’s stayed.” She sighed. “Including Mike Hanlon.”

“Who?”

“This guy I met at the crime scene. He grew up in Derry, stayed to become the head librarian. I mean, all I could think to ask was ‘why?’ Why stay? It couldn’t have been easy being one of the only black children in Derry, not to mention the whole murder spree going on from ’82-’84. I would’ve wanted to get the hell out of dodge, but he stayed.”

“Well, we stayed.”

“Yeah, in Seattle! Staying in Seattle, Washington is different than staying in Derry, Maine.” 

“Elitist.”

“Yeah, yeah. You remember how gritty the Ave was back in the day. Remember when we worked at Baskin Robbins, and we’d get addicts coming in every ten minutes asking for metal spoons? You, my little law-abiding angel, never handed out a single one.”

“You’re funny. You know, you were a big reason I stayed—”

“Sap.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh.”

“I was just wondering who Mike was staying for.”

“Must’ve been a hell of a love affair to make him chance this. The way he talked, it was like...like he was just waiting for this whole thing to start up again. Like he’d spent 27 years afraid of it.”

“He must’ve been terrified back then. I remember when the Green River Killer was all over the news in Seattle, and he wasn’t killing kids. I can’t imagine living in fear of something happening to my friends.” 

Roxanne looked over the edge of the folder she was holding. 

“You only had one friend.” 

“Yeah. And you were the one who hit Tommy Viscanza in the throat with your Lousville Slugger for throwing a dirty needle at me, so you were really more the serial killer than the serial-killee.” 

Roxanne snickered. 

“My, my, my, how the turntables turn.” 

“Look, I think we should put together a list of adolescents in Derry the first time this happened. I know it’s rate, but it’s possible that a teenager saw or helped his father commit the first round of crimes and has decided to repeat the cycle. Violence isn’t genetic, but it can be a learned behavior.”

“The Boston Butcher coerced his son into abducting and torturing women for him when he got too old to do it himself, and there was a case in southern Virginia where a son found the diaries of his late father, in which he described his crimes, and the young man tried to copy them in order to feel closer to his dad. I wouldn’t bet on it, though. The MO’s too similar. It’s only been 27 years. If the killer was, oh, 25 then, he’d be 52. That’s not too old, especially if the victims are children.”

“Maybe the children saw something. You remember being a kid. You don’t tell adults jack shit because they never listen, and even when they do, they don’t understand. Maybe after all these years, one of them will be willing to help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marillion, “The Invisible Man,” Marbles, perf. Steve Hogarth, Steve Rothery, Mark Kelly, Ian Mosely, and Pete Trewavas. Intact Records (Zurich, 2004).  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNh__GZJL1s


	3. The Return to the City of His Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ritchie comes back to Derry, and remembers. Everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,  
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;  
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,  
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word ‘Lenore?’  
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘Lenore!’  
Merely this and nothing more.”

The woman’s name was Denise, and Richie Tozier’s manager had all but insisted that that Richie go home with her. He’d been anxious all evening, knowing that he’d have to find a way to explain his lackluster and unenthusiastic performance, so at odds with his onstage persona. So, true to form, he’d gotten hammered. That way, when she reached down the front of his pants to grasp a completely flaccid penis, he’d had plausible deniability. Unfortunately, she was persistent, and eventually, after fifteen minutes of determined handjobbing while Richie closed his eyes and thought of gay pornography, he’d firmed up enough to allow her to climb on top of him and slide home. 

“There we go,” she purred. 

Instead of the willowy blonde, Richie imagined a young man in his lap. He was small and slender, fitting perfectly in his arms, with soft, wavy, shiny brown hair framing his lovely face. The vision was so clear and so arousing that Richie wondered for a moment if he was going insane. Dizzy to fever with arousal, Richie surged forwards, blindly searching for lips to kiss, fitting hands to hips, gasping, almost crying—

“Eddie—oh, Eddie, oh, God, oh my God, oh, Eddie, fuck—”

“Hey! What the hell!” 

Richie yanked open his eyes to see Denise’s pissed-off face, smeared lipstick, and crossed arms. “You’re not into this, are you?” she asked. 

“Uh…”

“Look, it’s okay, honest. If you’re not into me, you’re not into me. I just wish you would’ve told me, instead of letting me make a fool out of myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie said, numb. “It’s just...my act. You know.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “If you don’t mind me asking...who is Eddie?” 

Richie felt like he was going to cry. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I, I, I…”

Denise’s eyes turned from irritated to soft and sad. “I’m sorry I lied to you, I really, really am, but I think I need some time alone. Can I call you—”

“I’ll call a cab,” she said, getting up and pulling her dress over her head. “Whatever’s going on with you, Richie, I really hope you sort it out. Everyone deserves to be happy.”

He nodded numbly. 

“Just so you know, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks,” he bit out. 

She was halfway out the door before she turned around. 

“I really hope you find him, Richie.”

Richie put his head in his hands and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. The young man was so familiar, and so beloved, that it seemed insane that he couldn’t remember him. He must’ve been part of the blur that was his life between ’92 and ’98. Whoever he was, he had clearly informed Richie’s entire sexual development. He was similar to, but not the same as, the men in the videos he would guiltily masturbate to. All of them had brown hair, brown eyes, and small frames, but none of them were quite right. Somewhere in the depths of his brain lived the memory of a young man with big, brown, melted-chocolate eyes, a small, soft, shining, pink mouth, and finely wrought features, who had once looked up at Richie with desire and love. Who looked at him like the sun would only rise in the morning if he said it could. 

Richie got up, did up his pants, and poured himself four fingers of bourbon. Maybe if he got shitfaced, the empty feeling would go away. He’d only just swallowed his first mouthful when the phone rang. 

“Dammit. This is Richie.”

“Richie?” 

The voice was so goddam familiar, Richie thought. 

“Who is this?”

“This is Mike Hanlon. Richie, It’s back.”

“I don’t—Mike—when—”

The man on the other side of the phone waited patiently. 

“Mike...did I know someone named Eddie?” 

“What? Richie, Eddie was your best friend. You guys were inseparable. Richie, I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to come back. It’s back.” 

“It? I don’t understand…” 

“Look, Richie, just come back to Derry, and we can talk about it. I don’t know what’s going on with you guys, but leaving Derry must’ve made you forget. You’ll remember once you’re back.”   
Richie hung up the phone numbly. He didn’t remember much—just that Mike was a friend, and that Derry was where he’d spent his childhood—but he was overwhelmed with a bone-deep sense of dread. He was scared. Really scared. But there was another sensation deep in his stomach, like he’d swallowed a bowl full of snakes. It was uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant. 

Eddie’ll be there. 

He couldn’t get to the car fast enough, and it’s fucking crazy, because he’s scared out of his wits of something so horrible he can only think around the edges of it, and he knows he might die, but somehow that’s better than the lie he’s been living. He jumped into the driver’s seat and plugged Derry, ME into his GPS, not giving a single thought to the comedy club expecting Trashmouth Tozier in Milwaukee tomorrow, or Urbana the day after that, or South Bend, or Ann Arbor. 

Richie gunned it and cranked up the volume of his music. I Want You to Want Me played as he merged onto I-90 East, sliding quickly into Surrender. He switched to REO Speedwagon as he hopped onto 294—first Take it on the Run, then Time For Me To Fly. It wasn’t his usual mix—he usually preferred, old, old, old school rock n’ roll, but now he wanted to listen to something he remembered from the radio, from his childhood. And the further he sped away from Madison, his manager, and the Trashmouth Tour, the closer he felt to himself. 

***

Twenty-two hours later, as Richie drove into Derry proper, he had to pull over. He couldn’t see the road. Millions of hours worth of memories pouring into his brain, playing behind his eyes. Most of them concerned his best friend and his first love, Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie put his head in his hands and cried, overwhelmed with a depth of emotion he hadn’t felt before or since. Being young, happy, free, and in love—pain and heaven, all contained in his scrawny body, tormented and ecstatic like only kids could be. He remembered Eddie’s careful fingers wiping blood away from his brow, patching up skinned knees and bloody noses with tenderness and care, soothing scrapes and cuts with bare hands despite his mother’s terror of AIDS. He remembered, after a particularly harsh smackdown from Bowers, teasingly asking Eddie if he’d kiss it all better. Eddie had blushed and pulled back for a moment. Richie remembered his freckles, the sweep of his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, the sunburnt, pink smear of his lips. Then he leaned forwards, and softly pressed his warm lips to the bruise on Richie’s cheek.

“There,” he’d whispered, barely audible. “All better. You happy now?” 

And Richie, for the first time, had dared to imagine what those soft, plush lips would feel like pressed up against his own. He felt dirty, excited, and terrified. 

“Thanks, Eds,” he whispered and, with a sudden rush of bravery, bent forwards and pecked his cheek, following it up with a pinch. “Ya make a great nurse, you know that?”

How could he have forgotten? 

And, of course, the answer was that he never really had forgotten. The porn, the way he’d felt ill telling jokes about women, being touched by women, the dreams, and the idiopathic sense of excitement he felt whenever he opened the door. He’d been waiting, waiting, waiting for Eddie Kaspbrak for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven goddam wasted years. 

Someone rapped on the car window. Richie started, hurriedly wiping the tears from his face with a sleeve. 

“Sir? Are you all right?” A scarred hand rapped on the window once more. It was a woman’s hand, with long, slender fingers. A thick, ridged, puckered scar was raised along the back of her hand. Richie rolled down his window. 

“Uh, yeah. I’m fine, Eddie. I mean, uh…”

“Not even close.” The hand’s owner bent down. She was a slender woman with a sharp chin and large, almond-shaped blue eyes. “The name’s Agent Roxanne Little. Mind stepping out of the vehicle?” 

“Uh, okay. I—I’m not deranged or anything. I’m just—”

The agent pulled out a notepad. 

“Mind telling me your name, sir?” 

“Richie Tozier.”

“Tozier? Trashmouth Tozier? Huh.” She put the notepad away and motioned at her partner, who was leaning against the passenger-side door of their car— “Chelle, get over here! It’s Trashmouth Tozier!”

“Are you a fan?” Richie asked, startled. 

“Not exactly,” she said. “I use your shows in my Linguistic Profiling class! I play your set about your, uh, girlfriend catching you jerking off to her friend’s Facebook pictures, and I ask them what they think I realized the second I watched it.” She pointed at Richie, grinning. “No one’s gotten it so far. Lucky for you, not so lucky for the BSU.” 

Richie blushed and sweated. 

“Wh-wh-wha—” 

“Oh, come on. Can’t fool a fellow faggot, Trashmouth!” 

Her partner, an athletic woman with a dark brown ponytail and striking hazel eyes, elbowed her and made some impassioned hand signs. 

“Oh...oh, shit. Uh, my wife thinks you’re closeted.” She blushed. “Didn’t mean to, uh, jump the gun. Sorry. Sometimes my mouth runs faster than my brain.”

“That makes two of us,” Richie said. “Sorry. I just never, you know, told anyone.”

“Well, your secret’s safe with me, though I question the wisdom of repressing the shit out of yourself for forty years. You wanna tell me why you’re having an emotional breakdown on the highway?” 

“I was...sad.”

“Why?” Roxanne probed. Michelle slapped her forearm. 

“Because I’ve wasted my life,” Richie said bluntly. “I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I did piss away twenty seven years.” 

“Can’t say I know the feeling, but I can certainly appreciate the menace of the ticking clock. What brings you to Derry?”

“Old friends.” 

“You were here too, weren’t you? When the first murders happened. What the hell is going on in this town? Why would you want to come back to this place? Why now?” 

Richie looked at her. She was wearing a red blouse and a pair of beige slacks. Over top was a hot pink wool peacoat. Her hair was tied up in a half-bun, frizzy curls cascading down her shoulders. She leaned heavily on a pale wood cane. She didn’t look accusatory or angry, just confused. 

“It’s a long story, and I’ve only just remembered it, so bear with me. When I was a kid, I had a group of friends here. Back then, we promised that if these killings ever started up again, we’d come back, and try to stop them. It sounds stupid, I know, but—”

“Twenty-seven years...so you were what, twelve? And—”

“Thirteen.”

“Oh, thirteen. Great. So you’re making good on the promise you made as a teenager to catch a serial killer. Who does that?”

“Someone with ulterior motives,” Richie said. They had started walking into town, leaving their cars on the shoulder of the road. “I didn’t come back to catch a killer. I came back to see my friends.”

“One in particular,” Roxanne guessed.

“What makes you—”

“‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,  
‘Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,’” Roxanne quoted. “Coming back to your hometown when a murderer is on the loose is crazy. The only reason to subject yourself to that would be if the opportunity had shocked you enough to dare to believe in something you’d never considered a possibility.” She stopped outside the library, one hand on her cane, one clutching her partner’s forearm. Richie didn’t fail to notice their matching dull, silvery rings. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me who. I’ll find out soon enough. I wanna talk to you, Trashmouth. About back then. What you saw. What you knew.” 

Richie nodded silently, wondering how on earth he’d manage to censor their clashes with Pennywise into something fit to tell the FBI. 

“Don’t go nowhere,” she warned. “I’ll find you.” She then turned heel and limped into the library, leaving Richie wondering exactly how transparent he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edgar Allen Poe, “The Raven,” Norton Anthology of Poetry, ed. Margaret Ferguson et al, 1981, p. 978


	4. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,  
‘Guess now who holds thee?’— ‘Death,’ I said. But there,  
The silver answer rang, — ‘Not Death, but Love.’”

Richie stood outside the door of the restaurant, sweating and twitching. He was suddenly very aware of his bad clothes, receding hairline, 5 o’ clock shadow, thick glasses, weird face—

“Richie!” 

He started and turned around to see Bev, eyes sparkling, walking towards him. “Beep beep, Richie! It’s been too long!”

He gave Bev a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, blinking away tears. “I can’t believe we’re all back,” he said. “Have you seen the others?” 

“Mike is finishing up at the library,” she said, grabbing his hands and beaming. “The others are on their way. Are you excited to see Eddie?”

Richie blushed. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Good. You two were always so close. Oh, Eddie! Speak of the devil?” 

Richie turned around, holding his breath. He couldn’t feel his face, and he could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. Eddie was still small after all these years, but he’d filled out a bit. A pair of broadened shoulders tapered down to an achingly slender waist. His arms were definitely more well-muscled than Richie remembered, and a fantastic pair of thighs filled out his tapered chinos, but he still had the same sharp chin, button nose, freckles, and soft, brown hair that Richie remembered so fondly. Above all else, his eyes were still the same gorgeous, warm shade of brown, and they still looked at Richie with great warmth and tenderness. 

Richie jogged towards Eddie, and Eddie jogged towards him, and they sort of met in the middle. They caught each other up in a hug, laughing, and Richie used his height advantage to catch Eddie up and spin him around. 

“Rich, put me down!” Eddie demanded, but he was laughing. Richie complied, too overwhelmed by the scent of Eddie’s aftershave and the warmth of his body to come up with a clever riposte. Unselfconsciously, Eddie planted his face in the crook of Richie’s neck and wormed closer to him, taking in a deep, snuffling breath. Richie held him tight, feeling good, feeling alive, while also fighting off needling pangs of guilt. If Eddie knew what he was, what he wanted, he’d never let Richie touch him like this. 

“I missed you, Eds,” he says, and even that’s hard to summon up the courage to say, because what if Eddie didn’t miss him? What if Eddie loves his life, and it’s been nice to see Richie, but not worth it in the slightest? 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, his voice muffled by Richie’s jacket. “I missed you, too.” 

When they finally let go of each other, Richie’s crying a little. Eddie doesn’t notice because he’s too busy kissing Bev on the cheek and catching up with her. 

“Hey,” Richie said, clearing his throat. “Either of you guys run into the Feds?”

Eddie looked up, startled. “The FBI? Here?” 

Bev shook her head. 

“No, I haven’t seen anyone. Are they investigating the disappearances?”

Richie nodded. 

“There’s just two of them. I mean, there’s not much to go on. But I met them on my way into town. A profiler and her partner.” He paused. “They want to interview me.”

“What?” Eddie asked sharply, cheeks flushing. “They don’t think—”

“No, no, I don’t think so. They know we were here the first time around. They just want to see if we remember anything.” Richie laughed ruefully. “So it couldn’t hurt to, you know, get our stories straight. For all the good it’ll do.”

“What do you mean, for all the good it’ll do?” Bev asked.

“I just...she picked me apart pretty fast,” Richie admitted. “If we make something up, I don’t know that they’ll buy it. Fair warning.”

“Picked you apart how?” Eddie demanded, voice rising in pitch and volume. “I mean, did she read you your rights? She had no right to just stop you and—and—interrogate you like some common criminal!” 

“It wasn’t about the murders, Eds, honest. Just some stuff about my act.” He hesitated. “She knew I didn’t write my own jokes. It wasn’t a big deal.”  
“I knew it,” Eddie giggled. “Aww, poor Richie! Who’s gonna let the Trashmouth do what he wants to do?”

“Hey! It’s Mike!” Bev shouted. Richie opened his mouth to greet him, but he froze when re saw the two women flanking him. 

“Hi guys!” Mike said, grinning. “Long time, no see!” 

“Is one of you Eddie Kaspbrak?” Roxanne asked. 

“Uh, guys, these are Agents Little and Johnson. They’re here to investigate the disappearances. They just want to hear about what Derry was like back in the day.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak? May I speak to you?” 

Eddie shuffled his feet nervously. 

“Uh…”  
“You’re not in trouble, sweetheart,” she coaxed. “I just need a quick word. Thanks, Mike.”

Richie’s heart slammed in his chest as Roxanne pulled Eddie aside. He fervently hoped they weren’t talking about him.

“Look, Mr. Kaspbrak—”

“You can call me Eddie, it’s okay.”

“Okay, Eddie. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your wife put a tracker on your car.”   
Roxanne was leaning up against the wall of the Ladies bathroom, hands in her pockets. Michelle guarded the door, face impassive. Eddie was hunched over, clearly uncomfortable and a little beaten-down. He reminded her of Jesse so much that she couldn’t breathe for a moment. 

“What?!”

“Yeah. And she’s been calling the agent in charge at the Derry PD so much I’ve started pretending to be a Chinese restaurant. I’m not asking you to fix it, it’s just information. But I am concerned.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Look, I’ve been stonewalling her, and I’m happy to continue to do so but please just know that if you ever want to talk, I’m here. All right?” 

Eddie nodded, lips pressed together, eyes downcast. Roxanne sighed through her nose. “I can’t...I shouldn’t...you know what, fuck it. I want you to listen to me, Eddie. You don’t deserve to be treated like that, do you hear me? In a healthy relationship, you are allowed to take time for yourself and be with your friends.” She put a hand on his shoulder. Eddie looked over, noticing her two missing fingers. The stumps were covered with gray rubber caps. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I lost those almost two years ago. But I’m serious. It’s not healthy, and it’s not normal. I don’t want to keep you from your friends, but I need you to know that I’ll be looking out for you. All right?”

Eddie took a few deep breaths, and then looked up. “All right. Thank you.” 

“Okay. I’ll be out in a moment.” 

When Eddie left the bathroom, Michelle walked up to Roxanne, taking her by the upper arms and pulling her close, only to maneuver her far enough back to read her hands. 

“You look like you’re having a hard time. Talk to me.” 

“God, I just—I can’t—”

“I know, Rosie. The last one ended ugly. It happens.”

“But it didn’t fucking have to!” Roxanne exploded. Her face crumpled, and she started to cry. “I made a bad call, Chelle. And now—”

“Roxanne, stop it—”

“NO!” she shrieked. “He’s DEAD because of ME! I pr—” Her voice cracked. “I promised to keep him safe. He risked his life to do my fucking job and I got him killed.”

“Not. You.” 

Michelle’s voice, rarely used, sounded as if it was being dragged from the very depths of her chest. Guttural, deep and resonant, the rarity with which she used it only added to its impact. It was obvious that speaking was painful for her, a lingering reminder of the scarlet fever that had laid her up for nearly a year when she was only six years old. “It was that asshole,” she signed. “Walter. He did this, not you.” 

“He was a psychopath,” Roxanne snarled, pacing along the line of sinks like a caged animal. “Skunk’s gonna spray, ain’t no use for it. He was nothin’ but an animal. I should’ve known better.” 

“I know you’re scared about getting back on that horse, but there’s nothing for it.” Chelle cast around, looking for a paper towel to blot the angry tears that had started to slip from her wife’s eyes. “Jack asked me to keep you from getting too involved, but I think you could do some real good here. I know that you can find the person taking these kids, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think that maybe you could these people too. That guy we met, the closet case—what if out secondary project, our B story, as it were, was to get him to own up to his soulmate?”

Roxanne looked up, skeptical. 

“Soulmate? Are you, Evadne Michelle Johnson, actually encouraging me to meddle in the romantic affairs of a stranger?”

“I know it’s wildly unprofessional. But I also know that nothing cheers you up faster than sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“That won’t fix this, you know. I’ll have to carry the guilt of what I did to that poor kid around for the rest of my life.” 

Michelle sighed quietly, and shrugged.

“Well, you’re not crying anymore. At least there’s that.

When she emerged, all the Losers, including Bill and Ben, were whispering together, looking concerned. “All is well, fellow citizens. I return your friend, much in the same condition in which I found him.” She clapped her hands together. “I can’t mandate that you come in and talk to me, so all I’m gonna do is strongly urge you to consider it your civic responsibility. I can’t stress enough that I don’t consider any of you suspects. I’m asking for your help because I believe that the ’82-’84 murders are incredibly significant to this investigation, and the record-keeping and police reports are absolutely useless. You were kids. You knew the Derry that the missing children inhabited. I need to know it, too.” She held up a sheet of paper. “Please sign up to come see me tomorrow. I’m asking nicely.”

Richie was the first to sign his name, followed, as always, by Eddie. Ben went up next, followed by Bev, then Bill, then Mike. Roxanne nodded. “Thank you. All of you. Stay safe, and stay together. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese: A Celebration of Love, (New York: St. Martin’s Press), 1986.


	5. Psychoanalysis, Vol. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “O darkness! O in vain!  
O I am very sick and sorrowful!   
O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea!   
O troubled reflection in the sea!   
O throat! O throbbing heart!   
And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.”  
-Walt Whitman, Out of the Cradle, Endlessly Rocking

“Are we really doing this?” Eddie whispered nervously. They were standing in the hall of the Fairfield In and Suites. Richie’s hands were in his pockets and his shoulders were hunched. 

“I’m freaked, too,” he admitted. “It’ll be okay.” 

“Richie,” Eddie said, barely audible. He reached for him, wrapping his long, slender fingers around Richie’s wrist. Richie could feel him shaking. 

“Eds,” he sighed. He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. 

“Everything’s gonna be alright. You’re not gonna get hurt. I’ll getcha back to that wife of yours in one piece.” 

Eddie sighed, looking away and rubbing his face with one hand. 

“Rich, I…” 

“Richie Tozier? We’re ready for you.” 

Roxanne had poked her head into the hallway. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of tiny, wire-rimmed German-intellectual glasses. Eddie gave Richie a nervous backwards glance as he entered the room. 

Richie didn’t know what he was expecting, but the room was just a regular hotel suite. Roxanne crossed the room to a green armchair. She was wearing a white blouse tucked into a blue wool skirt and knee-high gray boots. 

“Sorry for taking the good chair,” she said. “My lower half’s been acting up since Friday.” 

“No problem.” 

Richie didn’t want to be rude, but he couldn’t help but stare at the jagged snarls of scar tissue snaking up her forearms, the teardrop-shaped canyon of missing flesh under her left eye, and the two missing fingers. 

“How’d you lose your fingers?” he asked before he could stop himself. The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to slap and hand to his mouth. But Roxanne just laughed.

“Tell you what. If you tell me who you’re in love with and why, I’ll tell you what happened to my fingers.” 

Richie blushed, mouth open. “It’s a really good story,” she said lazily. “You won’t be sorry. And I legally can’t tell anyone what you say to me. I’m a psychiatrist above all else, and I’m bound by the ethical standards of my profession.”

“All right,” he sighed. “What the hell.”

“Okay, why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me when you realized you were gay.”

“I was probably about eleven. I mean, ever since I was a kid, I never felt that I belonged. I thought it was because I was a loser, I had glasses, I couldn’t not run my mouth. I was always goofing off in class--”

“Huh!” 

“What?”

Roxanne shook her head, smiling. 

“You can play it off like you were too cool for school, but if you graduated high school with below a 3.5 GPA, I’ll dance at your wedding stark fucking naked. Hell, I don’t believe in I.Q. testing, but if I administered one to you right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if you clocked in at 140 or higher.” 

Richie chuckled. 

“I liked learning, but I had trouble sitting still sometimes. I mean, you remember being a kid. It’s one thing to be sitting in a classroom for six hours, and it’s another to read a book about snakes or dinosaurs or violent Norse myths with your friends. Teachers didn’t like me, but I tested well.” He sighed. “Eddie was always just...there. I mean, he was--is--my best friend. He was just a spitfire, just truly feral-angry like, all the time, the first one to tell me to shove it, but he would never leave me. Ever. No matter how stupid the idea, he was always right there. And he was cute. Cute, cute, cute, running his mouth about infections or carcinogens or whatever, with his little tube socks and booty shorts, squishy chubby cheeks, and frowny little mouth. It was crazy because we were just children, but I’ve never felt anything like that since. That was love. The way I loved him...was something they couldn’t understand. That was what saved us. The way I loved him--still love him, will love him--took, takes, will take more than I could, can, will be able to imagine, even now. He carried me around, back then, like loose change, jingling at the bottom of his little fanny pack. He didn’t seem to feel it, though, as he walked down the street, radiating that unique birthday-candle glow, not even knowing the way I loved him. Love him. Will love him. And the second I came home, it all rushed right back. Twenty-seven years grinding by... God, it makes me sick to imagine all the wasted time.” 

“Do you think he loves you back?” 

Richie shook his head, eyes full of tears. 

“I don’t know. I never let myself consider it. It was too painful to ever consider what it might be like to really be with him. I couldn’t let myself hope. I couldn’t lose him, even if it meant never telling him the truth.” 

“What do you think he would do if you told him?”

“I honestly don’t know. Worst case scenario, he’d be disgusted.”

“And in the best case?”

“He’d feel the same way. Even then, it would be so hard to think about all the time I wasted just   
because I was a coward.”

Roxanne nodded. 

“When did you know?” Richie asked. 

“I don’t know. Ten, maybe. Chelle and I have been friends since we were six. It was like my entire sexual evolution was mapped around her. We kissed for the first time when we were fifteen. I used to make her carry me places, you know. She’d always want to jet around the city-- we grew up in Seattle--and I’d tell her that I’d only go if she’d carry me. So we were going from Capitol Hill back to the place we always hung out, Cowen Park. There was a tiny playground attached to this long running trail in a ravine tucked under the Ravenna Overpass. We used to spend 90% of our time in the shadow of that overpass. She put me down, and I was looking up at her, and I just couldn’t not kiss her.” She shrugged. “Bravery never entered into it. I didn’t have a choice.” 

“I carved our initials on the Kissing Bridge,” Richie said. “It was like I couldn’t keep in inside. It was like...you ever see one of those movies where someone gets possessed by a demon and it starts burning through their mortal form and they can’t handle the power? That’s what it felt like. I could barely sleep. Food had no taste. I mean, for twenty-seven years, I felt nothing at all. I mean, is it better to just forget, and feel nothing, or to be in pain?” 

“When I would talk to the families of murder victims, they would always complain to me that their therapists wanted them to stop grieving and get better. No one understood that the pain was the only thing connecting them to their lost loved ones.” 

Richie was crying. He took off his glasses and pressed his fingers into his eyes until neon spots burst into his field of vision. “I know it’s painful,” she whispered. 

“God,” Richie sobbed. “It’s never gonna stop.”

“I don’t believe that,” Roxanne said. “I see a way out of this.”

“How? I can’t forget him, and he’s fucking married!”

“Richie, listen to me. His wife is a fucking nightmare. You need to tell him how you feel. You know that you’re important to him! Did you see how he greeted you? He told you he missed you! Do you really, honestly think that he’d be disgusted if you told him who you really are?” 

“No, of course not, but he wouldn’t want to touch me, he wouldn’t want me to look at him--”   
“What if he loves you too? What if he’s been going through the same torture as you for your whole lives? Wouldn’t you want to relieve that for him?”   
“Of course. Of course. But I’m scared, and I’m selfish, and I don’t want to risk things changing between us.”

“What if it changes for the better?”

“Worse seems more likely.”

“But that’s just not true!” Roxanne used her hands to uncross her legs and recross them, left over right. “I believe that that’s distorted thinking. You obviously have self-esteem issues, which is really common in closeted people, and I think that that might be causing you to be more pessimistic than the situation warrants. Do you believe that that’s a possibility?”

Richie mulled it over. “Sure. Anything’s possible.”

“Okay. That’s the first step. I’m not asking you to reorient yourself right away. You don’t have to see the light at the end of the tunnel. You just have to believe me when I say that I do.” Her watch beeped. “That’s our warning. Well, I promised that I’d tell you how I lost my fingers.” She reached over to pull off the gray rubber caps over her stumps. “Two years ago, I was working on a case--the Chesapeake Ripper. Ever heard of him?”

Richie shook his head.

“I’m not surprised. Unless you live in the DMV, you probably don’t remember the murders. But there was a killer two years ago on the loose around Baltimore. He killed in groups of three or four, taking surgical trophies, and he never left any forensic or trace evidence. We knew he was a doctor and we knew he was a white male in his forties, but we didn’t know anything else. He was a ghost. I was at a crime scene in September of last year, examining a body, when I realized that he’d taken the sweetbreads. They weren’t surgical trophies--he was eating them.”

Richie was speechless for a moment. 

“Ugh!”

“Yeah,” Roxanne said calmly. “Cannibalism can be cultural, situational, sexual, or the result of a psychosis.” 

“Sexual!”

“Yeah. Some cannibals are impotent. Eating human flesh is a way for them to commune on an evolutionarily primal level with another person. Sometimes primal urges get cross-wired psychosexually.” 

“Ugh!”  
“The first thing I did was hop in the car and drive to see my mentor. He helped me write my dissertation, and we stayed friends. He’s the one who recommended me to the FBI. He gave me the key to his house, even. So I went up and I knocked on the door, but he didn’t answer. So I unlocked the door, and went in.” Roxanne lit a clove cigarette, her hands shaking slightly. “I walked through the house, yelling after him; ‘Hey, Doctor! He’s eating them!’ When I found him, he was in the kitchen. He was cutting something that was fatty, and pink, and I recognized the butterfly-wings of a human thymus.” She tapped her cigarette, spreading a fine mist of ash on the carpet. “I turned to run, but he came up behind me and stabbed my with a pair of poultry shears. I kicked him in the nads and ran upstairs. He caught up to me on the landing, and we struggled. He was going to bite my face, and I put my hand up to block him like this.”

She demonstrated, holding her right hand up like she was trying to block out the sun. 

“I was holding his chin in my hand, pushing him back, and he opened his mouth, and bit down.” She took a moment and sniffed. “I shoved him, and he came away with my fingers. I ran all the way up the stairs and slammed the door shut behind me. I knew it was only a matter of time, and I knew that the victims had all been cut up while alive. There was a window. It was on the third floor, but it was my way out. I hit the glass with my fist to undo the latch. I got these cuts all up and down my arm.” 

She rolled up her sleeves, revealing the full extent of her scars. 

“I pushed it open, and fell. I hit the ground and rolled. My right shoulder took the impact and just ground into gravel. My pelvis basically cracked in two. Kneecaps, femurs, tibia...all ripped to shit. My friend found me and called an ambulance.”

“They couldn’t, you know, reattach them?” 

“Reattach what?”

“Your fingers. They can do that, can’t they?”

“Richie, I ain’t getting my fingers back. They’re long gone. And I’m okay with that. I’m left-handed, anyways.” Her watch beeped again. “And that’s time. We can meet again soon, if you’d like. But for now, please send Eddie in.”

Richie nodded and got up, head swimming. Then something occurred to him.

“Hey, I thought you wanted to learn about Derry back in the day.”

She looked up from replacing the caps on the stumps of her fingers.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Richie.”

“Richie, are you all right? You look...weird!” 

“Thanks Eds,” Richie sighed. 

“No, hey, seriously. What’s going on?” When Richie didn’t answer, Eddie grabbed him by the arms and shook him gently. “You know you can talk to me, Richie. I’m scared, too.” 

“Eds, will you get a drink with me tonight?”

“Shut up. Don’t call me that. But yes, I’ll get a drink with you.”

“Meet me at the Blue Ribbon Bar on Luray at seven, okay?” 

Before he turned to go, Eddie grabbed his arm. 

“Richie, please don’t do anything stupid. I know that’s like asking you not to breathe, but I’m begging.” 

Against his better instincts, Richie reached out and, after a brief hesitation, he took his hand. “I just got you back,” Eddie whispered. “Don’t take yourself away from me again.”

Richie pushed everything he was too scared to say into the trembling clench of their sweaty hands. 

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Eds. Go on. She’s ready for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I've been spelling Richie's name wrong 5 chapters in. Sigh. In my defense, my actual brother Ritchie spells it differently.


	6. Psychoanalysis, Vol. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “O what can ail thee, Knight at arms,  
Alone and palely loitering?   
The sedge has withered from the Lake  
And no birds sing!  
O what can ail thee, Knight at arms,  
So haggard and so woebegone?  
The squirrel’s granary is full  
And the harvest’s done.”  
-John Keats, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.”
> 
> TW: brief mention of sexual assault/harassment

“Come on in,” Roxanne called out. “Sit down. Relax.” 

Eddie walked in cautiously, peering into every corner of the room before sitting down. 

“Sorry about the delay--” 

Her phone rang. 

“Dammit. Dr. Little.” 

Eddie squirmed. “Mrs. Kaspbrak, calm down. I--what?”

Eddie shoved his fist into his mouth, staring at her with pleading eyes. Roxanne listened silently to the high-pitched buzz emanating from her cell. “No, no. That’s an old plumber’s trick. When you have a low-flow toilet, you can raise the water level by placing something in there--paper works best, but you have to wrap it in something so it doesn’t turn to mush and clog the pipes. Uh-huh. I gotta go.” 

She put the phone down.

“What did you just tell her?”

“A load of horseshit. D’you wanna tell me why your wife found a shrink-wrapped poster of Richie Tozier in your toilet tank?” 

“Uh…”

“I told her that it was a plumbing fix-it, but we both know that’s a lie.”

“And what do you think it is?” 

Roxanne grinned and then burst into song. 

“‘My blood runs cold  
My memory has just been sold!  
My angel is the centerfold  
Angel is the centerfold!’” 

Eddie flushed. 

“Tell me,” she said, “why are you in a relationship with someone who is so obviously wrong for you?” 

“I don’t--I--” He sighed. “You know, we didn’t…I never…”

“And there she lullèd me asleep,  
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—  
The latest dream I ever dreamt  
On the cold hill side.  
I saw pale kings and princes too,  
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;  
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci  
Thee hath in thrall!’” quoth Roxanne. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie asked, aggrieved. 

“It means that you fell asleep,” Roxanne explained. “La Belle Dame Sans Merci. John Keats. It’s a poem about a knight who is entranced by an evil sorceress. She puts him to sleep, and when he wakes up, he’s ill and drained.” 

Eddie didn’t say anything. His lower lip was tucked under his upper one, like a bird’s beak. 

“I pulled hospital reports, Eddie. The second your wife called me, I knew what she was. And I’ve seen you. The world,” she said, gesturing around the room, “thinks it’s sweet—you know, the stammer and the tremor in your voice. But only your friends--maybe even only Richie--know not to mistake it for weakness—or some kind of…” she trailed off. “...Incompleteness. Because round about now, I know you can feel it tingling at your nerve endings. It’s coiled up inside you. It’s ready to blow.” 

She lit a cigarette but didn’t bring it to her mouth, just letting it burn between her fingers. 

“You don’t even know me! What the hell are your talking about? Nothing’s inside me, all right? I’m just...hollow. Like you said, they just...hollowed me out. There’s nothing left.” 

“Well, Richie thinks very highly of you.”

“Richie hasn’t seen me in twenty-seven years,” Eddie sighed. “He thought too much of me even then. I don’t know what the fuck he saw in me.” 

“Why wouldn’t you trust the one person who treated you well and with respect?”

Eddie sighed. “Richie’s great. I love him. But he’s not objective. He’s an amazing, sweet person, and he’s the best friend I ever had. But he thinks I’m something better than what I am.”

“I believe that you have great power, Eddie Kaspbrak. It’s up to you to decide what to do with it. You can turn it on yourself, just like you’ve been doing, and keep tearing yourself apart.” She took a pull on her smoke, keeping her eyes open and watching Eddie. “Or, of course, you could love.”

Eddie said nothing. He was frozen, feeling as if his bowels were dripping out his bunghole.   
Roxanne laughed for a solid few seconds. The sound didn’t suit her austere appearance—it was a cascade of low and raspy snickers that transformed her pinched and dour face completely. 

“Wh-what’s that supposed to mean?” he stammered. 

“It means you don’t need another prescription, Mr. Kaspbrak,” she said with a grin. “You just need some dick.” 

Eddie opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. His face flushed, and he squirmed in his seat. All he could think was Am I really that fucking obvious? Finally, he said; “Shouldn’t you be telling me to go to marriage counseling, or—” 

“I’m not Dr. Phil, Eddie. I don’t give a shit about the sanctity of marriage, and moreover, I don’t recommend that anyone go to counseling with an abuser. Right now, you’re a sad sack, and sad sacks are bummers, and moreover, one of the guiding principles of my life has always been that suffering don’t make you holy anymore than jumping off a building makes you an angel. This life is a blind, howling slog through the dark, and we owe it to ourselves to at least do it with someone that makes us happy.” She pointed at him with her pen. “I’m giving you a prescription, and I want you to fill it.”

She handed him a slip of paper torn from her notebook. Printed in block letters were the words “200 ccs OF DOING RICHIE TOZIER.” 

“Roxanne, I...thank you. Really. Thank you for covering for me with my wife, and for trying to help me out, but I couldn’t do that to Richie. I mean, not only is he probably straight, but even if he’s not, he deserves someone who can--you know--” He made an expansive gesture. “Give him things. I’m just a yard sale of personal problems and I’m old, you know?”

“You’re the same age, asshole!” Roxanne burst out, exasperated. “And I’m ten years older than you!”

“You’re fifty?” Eddie asked.  
“Forty-nine. How old did you think I was?”

“I don’t know. My age, maybe a little younger.”

“Shut up. I’ve got white fucking hair.”

“Lots of people have white hair. I knew someone who went white in college. Your face is weird.”

“My face is weird?”

“Not in a bad way. It’s like you could be eighteen or sixty. If you held a gun to my head, I would’ve guessed thirty-eight. Nobody ever guessed my age wrong.”

“You don’t look old, but you act it. Lose the stick up your ass, and you could be twenty again.”

Her comment startled a laugh out of Eddie--a sort of surprised bark. “O what can ail thee, knight at arms, alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, and no birds sing! O what can ail thee, knight at arms, so haggard and so woebegone? The squirrel’s granary is full, and the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever-dew, and on thy cheeks a fading rose, fast withereth, too.”

“You do know it,” Roxanne said, grinning. 

“I did,” he whispered. “I just forgot. I forgot so much.”

“Tell me.”

“Richie struggled with math--not because he couldn’t understand the concepts, but because he couldn’t sit still for long enough--but he loved to read. None of the other Losers knew, but he got this big poetry anthology for his birthday from his grandmother, and he read it to pieces.” Eddie looked up. His eyes were shimmering with tears. “He’d read them to me. Love poetry, Roxanne. How could I have been so stupid?” 

“You weren’t stupid, Eddie. You were scared. I remember what it was like to be so deep in the closet that I couldn’t even conceptualize what I wanted to myself, much less to someone else. The pain of admitting that you wanted something was just too much. What else could a kid do but repress that? But you’re an adult now, and it’s time to realize that when you lie to yourself, you lie to everyone. Have a little compassion for that little boy. I know that it’s not easy, because I would shove last year’s version of me down a flight of stairs with zero compunction, but try to remember what it was like to be young and scared and in love. What was your favorite thing that he read to you?”

“Lines from Hamlet. ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt that I love.’” 

“So why have you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I couldn’t understand why he would…”

“Choose you? Well, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t have a choice any more than you or I did. I love my wife. If I did have a choice, I’d choose her every time for a million times. But I didn’t have a choice. That love I felt--I was a prisoner of it. Fighting it was never an option. Maybe you were stronger than I was, or more scared, but you’ve been trying to outrun yourself for your whole life. I just went limp.”

“You’re saying I should be just like you?” Eddie asked sourly, a bit defensive.

“No, I’m saying you should be you. I won’t say that my life has been easy, because it hasn’t. Some parts have been ugly. It’s been dangerous. Hell, it could be over tomorrow. But at least it’s been mine. The mistakes I’ve made have been mine, nobody else’s.” 

“My entire life has been dictated by my mother,” Eddie admitted. 

“Yeah,” Roxanne said. “I mean, it’s obvious that someone profoundly abused you. If they hadn’t, why would you put up with this bullshit?” She waved her phone, displaying a notification announcing seven missed calls. “Is she dead?”

“No,” Eddie sighed. “She’s still alive. I haven’t visited her in years. I couldn’t come back. But then, I didn't have to visit her. She was always right there.”

“In your head, or in your wife?”

“Both. I was out, Roxanne. I was out from under her, out of Derry, and I went right back. There must be something really, really wrong with me.”

“I don’t think it’s about the location. New York, Derry, doesn’t matter, wherever you go, there ain’t a lot of space for change in the closet.” 

“How did you do it?” 

“I...just...couldn’t keep pretending. I loved her so much that I didn’t have room for anything else. I knew my dad would support me, that helped, but it was scary. When I was at the University of Washington as a sophomore, I had a bunch of frat boys corner me, telling me they were gonna cure me. I knew what they meant, and they could’ve. I was in better shape then, but I was never one for fisticuffs. I talked big, but I always had Chelle to back me up. She was in an evening seminar. They were big guys. There was nothing I could’ve done to stop them.” She shook her head. “I hated it, feeling like I was powerless. But I wasn’t no bitch, and I decided to call their bluff. They left, but there were more where they came from.”

“Once I was getting changed in the locker room after gym class,” Eddie said before he could stop himself. “I was with Richie, and I guess I was watching a little too close, because Henry Bowers came up next to me and grabbed me, asking me ‘you like what you see, you little fag?’” He sniffed, and started when Roxanne reached out and took his hand. The gray rubber caps covering her stumps stuck to his skin. He felt the bumpy line of her scar on the back of his hand. Encouraged, he continued. “‘He-he said, ‘if you like that little thing, you’ll love this.’ He stuck his...you know...in my face. It was right against my mouth, I--all I could think about was infection, I mean, both real, and...well, they talked about it like a disease, you know?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Like it was catching. They’d tell us that the queers were trying to recruit, like they were giving sales pitches in Wendy’s parking lots.” 

“Yeah. My mom was always telling me I was fragile, vulnerable, sick. Once she told me that if I got the flu, I’d die. I actually convinced myself that I couldn’t be gay because of how scared I was of Henry Bowers, like if I was really gay I’d be thrilled if any dick was in my face.” 

“Yeah. Like how, as a lesbian, I’d be more’n happy to eat your psycho bitch wife’s cooch.” 

That startled a laugh out of Eddie. 

“You don’t know that she’s ugly.”

“Pretty comes from the inside out, Edward, and read my lips: that woman’s fucked up.” 

“I mean, I felt like I was going out of my head. Of course I didn’t want Henry Bowers to rape me. But I was also thinking, even as it was happening, about what it might be like to see Richie’s dick, to…” He lowered his face, blushing. “...to kiss it, even, or put it in my mouth.” 

“What did Richie do?” Roxanne asked.

“He went insane. He bit Bowers.”

“On the dick?” 

Eddie laughed, appalled. “No, not on the dick. On the arm. He bit a huge chunk out of his forearm. Bowers slammed his head into the edge of the locker twice and then booked it out of there. I was so freaked. I thought Richie was dead. He had a giant cut on his forehead and his nose was broken. I lost it. He didn’t even miss a beat, he was so pissed. He just kept talking about how he was gonna kill Bowers. It took me an hour to talk him down. I’d never seen him like that before. When he got picked on, he always just seemed to bounce back. But that really bothered him, and I felt awful, because he got hurt worse than he’d ever been hurt before because of me. Because I’m a deviant.”   
“When did that become a bad thing?” 

“Huh?”

“Well, think about it. Isn’t that was love is supposed to do--you know, break all the rules and conquer all? I mean, nothing’s worth anything if we’re not willing to fight for it. I believe that my love is special because I was willing to die for it. My wife was important enough to me that I was willing to risk my life to be with her. Straight people don’t understand that. They take their love for granted. You and I, we don’t have that option. I’m not saying it was a turn-on, sneaking around. It wasn’t sexy fun, it was really dangerous and scary. But I’m not saying it wasn’t, either. I don’t--” She sighed, frustrated. “I’m not expressing myself very well. My point is, this kind of love is special. It’s power. It’s bravery. It’s not a place, it’s a yearning. It’s not a race, it’s a journey. It’s not an act, it’s attraction. It’s not a style, it’s an action. It’s a dream for the waking, it’s a flower touched by flame. It’s a gift for the giving, it’s a power with a hundred names.” She made an expansive gesture. “Surge of energy, spark of inspiration. The breath of our love is electricity. It’s the hand that rocks the cradle. It’s the motion that swings the skies. It’s a method on the edge of madness. It’s a balance on the edge of a knife. It’s a smile on the edge of sadness. It’s a dance on the edge of life.”

Eddie’s head swam. He remembered that, the terror, along with the sick thrill of living on the edge, hiding in plain sight. It was dangerous, too dangerous to go to the Kissing Bridge and carve Richie’s initial and enclose it in a crude heart, but he’d done it anyways, heart pounding, nerve endings tingling, feeling achingly, burningly alive. 

“It was fucked up,” Eddie said, voice thick. “We shouldn’t have had to live like that you know.” 

“A simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death?” Roxanne quoted.

“William Wordsworth,” Eddie said. “‘We are Seven.’ I’d read these things, you know, and then I’d just cry, and I wouldn’t know why. But now I know--and I guess on some level, I always knew-- that it was because I remembered little Richie sitting on my bed, reading me poetry and touching my knee while my heart fair beat out of my chest.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that avoiding danger ain’t no safer in the long run,” she told him. “The fearful fall foul of fate as often as the reckless. If you’ve made mistakes, there’s always another chance for you. You can start over again at any moment, any time you choose. Just because you take a mouthful of shit doesn’t mean you can’t stop chewing and get up for some chocolate cake. Failure ain’t about falling down. Failure is staying down, and giving up on yourself. When I was in high school, I used to look up X-Files fan fiction on ff.net and print them out and keep them in a binder under my bed, and Chelle found it one night, and she still married me. If that’s not fucking inspirational, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You really don’t think that ship has sailed,” Eddie said, skeptical. 

“Just because you’ve wasted some of your life, that doesn’t mean that you have to waste more. It’s the sunk cost fallacy. A bitch’s got to know when to cut bait.” 

Her watch beeped. “That’s our time. I’ll see you soon. Here’s my card. Please don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions, or if you just want to talk.

Later that evening, the Losers all got together at the hotel bar. 

“So, that was weird, huh?” Richie said, tossing back a swallow of bourbon. 

“Really weird,” Eddie agreed. 

“I don’t know,” Bev demurred, shrugging. “She’s a little intense, but it was kind of fun talking about all the stuff we used to get up to.” 

“She didn’t ask you…I mean, what did you talk about?”

Ben looked confused. 

“Derry, man. Just Derry back in the day. What did you talk about?” 

“Uh...the same, really,” Richie lied. His cheeks were crimson. Eddie, undeceived, was filled with awful, burning hope.


	7. He Knows (You Know)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know,  
By the name of Annabel Lee;   
And this maiden she lived with no other thought   
Than to love and be loved by me.  
She was a child and I was a child,  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
But we loved with a love that was more than love—  
I and my Annabel Lee—  
With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven  
Coveted her and me.”
> 
> — Edgar Allen Poe, “Annabel Lee.” 
> 
> TW: brief homophobic language

Eddie was always early. Richie was always late. That evening, he was later. The Blue Ribbon Bar was the nicest spot in Derry. The bar was dark, lacquered oak, and imitated the atmosphere of an old, wealthy cigar club. The glasses were chipped, and Eddie suspected that the dark green wine bottles with faded, peeling labels emblazoned with French were filled with nothing more than water, but it was quiet, and far away from the others. Eddie ordered a vodka and cranberry juice and drank fast, trying to drown his anxiety. He was terrified that Richie had caught wind of his ulterior motives and booked it out of Derry, or that Roxanne had given him an urgent call letting him know about Eddie’s dark and deep desires and warned him to get gone. I don’t usually do this, but your friend’s a real deviant, Rich, you’d better get the hell out of dodge. Maybe the whole lesbian solidarity thing had been an act. Maybe she was just Pennywise messing with him. She hadn’t felt like a hallucination, though. The press of her hand against his was cold and rough, but real. The grinding pops of her hip joints and her scent—jasmine, cashmere, and something else, something warm and reassuring. 

Waiting, petrified, Eddie thought of the first gift Richie had ever given him. He’d bought it for five bucks at a second hand store when they were thirteen, at the end of their eighth grade year. Richie had saved up for a month to buy it. It was August of 1992. A drought had turned the sky into a humid pressure-cooker of purple clouds. He’d been waiting for Richie on the bridge. The streets, previously filled with students celebrating the summer, were emptying. The heat was killing. The distance smelled of rain and lightning. The air was green with the coming storm. The wind tasted like pennies. Then Richie had appeared in the distance, sweaty, panting. His nose was bloodied and his knee was skinned, but he was triumphant. A rectangle wrapped in silver foil was clutched in one hand. Eddie jogged up to meet him. 

“Richie! Are you—”

“I got it!” Richie crowed, waving the package. “Happy summer, Eds!”

“Richie, what happened to you?” 

“Oh—just a wee run-in with Bowers, Eds, don’t worry about it. That’s not important. But this is!” He thrust the present into Eddie’s hands. “Open it!” 

Bewildered, Eddie unseamed the wrapping paper, revealing a book. The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 5th Edition. 

Richie beamed at him. “I finally found another one! Now we can read together! I marked my favorites, Spaghetti. We’re gonna just have a book club, Eds, just you and me.” 

For a moment, Eddie couldn’t breathe past how much he loved Richie. His grinning face, skinned knee, bloodied nose, bruised face, legs, and arms wormed their way into his heart like a painful splinter. They were the only ones occupying the airless dusk before thunder. 

“Well?” Richie asked, voice faltering a little. “Do you like it?”

Eddie approached him, eyes full of tears, lips trembling. He got close enough to smell the chewing gum on Richie’s breath, the smell of sweat, blood, and Richie’s underlying scent: something citrusy, fresh, and clean. After a trembling moment’s hesitation, he pressed a kiss to Richie’s cheek. His skin was soft and smooth, like silk. The corner of his lips was sticky from the RC cola he was always drinking, and the curve of his jaw smelled like the cologne Eddie knew he had swiped from his father: peppermint and patchouli. Richie trembled. When Eddie pulled away, Richie’s face was crimson, his eyes were wide, and his mouth was slack and open. Eddie blushed. “Wow,” he had said softly. “Thanks, Spaghetti.” 

Eddie was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of the bar door banging open. Richie was standing in the doorway, breathing hard. He was pale and sweaty. Eddie left the stool and stepped away from the bar, making three paces across the room. Richie’s distress made him brave. He grabbed his hand and pulled him across the threshold. 

“Richie, are you all right?” When he didn’t reply, Eddie propelled him to the bar, setting him down on a stool. “Bourbon, neat,” he snapped at the bartender. “Richie, talk to me!”

“I saw IT,” Richie whispered dully. “In the park.” He picked up his drink with shaking hands. “Eddie, we have to leave. IT knows…” he trailed off. “IT knows. I can’t stay.”

“What does IT know?” Eddie asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Richie looked up, eyes full of some kind of indescribable pain, his mouth a tense, compressed line. 

“You’ll hate me,” he whispered.

“That’s not possible,” Eddie said flatly. “I know you, Richie.”

“You know me?” Richie laughed bitterly. “You knew I was a fag?” His shoulders were tensed, like his was expecting a blow. 

“Yeah,” Eddie sighed. “When I was a kid, I knew you were gay. I always knew.”

Richie sat bolt upright, spots of red appearing high on his cheeks. 

“You knew? And you still, uh…” 

“Still what? Laid in bed with you, reading comics? In the hammock, let you sit between my legs, fell asleep on your chest, pressed my face into your neck when I was tired, held your hand? It really never occurred to you that I might be the same way?” 

Richie gaped at him, and internally, Eddie gaped at himself. But it wasn’t really surprising. He might have been a coward, but he’d always been bravest when Richie needed him. Richie had always been there for him, and this was the least he could do. He had been so afraid of this moment, but it was easy. Richie made it easy. Everything was always easy with Richie. 

“Eddie,” Richie said. “I…”

Eddie would always remember how Richie’s face was taken over by awe, hope, and a dawning realization. 

“Do you remember the evening I kissed you on the bridge?” 

“Of course,” Richie whispered. “Even when I forgot, it was still there.” It was true. There had hardly been a night for twenty-seven years when he hadn’t dreamed of Eddie, of his bright, brown eyes, of the sensation of his soft lips lingering on Richie’s cheek. No one his managers had set him up with had ever compared with the soft touch of Eddie’s hands, sticky with melted ice cream, entwined with his own, the warm skin of Eddie’s thigh snugged against his thigh, the milky scent of Eddie’s breath as he fell asleep on Richie’s chest. And now, Eddie was here—not in his subconscious, not in his dreams, but right here, within arms reach, beautiful and real. 

“So what do you think?” Eddie asked, voice low. Richie almost got lost in watching his lips move instead of listening to what he was saying. “Do you think I’m a deviant?” 

“No, of course not,” Richie said. “You’re my best friend. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Eddie’s slender fingers wrapped around Richie’s wrist. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. Richie was achingly hard in his jeans, but he had to clear his head. “The reason I asked you here is because I want to leave. I can’t...this is way above our paygrade, Eds. I know me made a promise, but we were just kids. We didn’t know what we were doing. We’re lucky we didn’t get killed. I don’t want to die here. But I won’t leave without you. I don’t want to go back to my life before, when I was closeted, forgetting everything. Forgetting you. I want my best friend in my life.” 

“This isn’t your responsibility, Richie. I—”

“I won’t abandon you.” Despite how afraid Richie was, he didn’t hesitate for a moment.

Eddie sighed. “You wouldn’t, would you?” 

“No,” Richie said firmly. “Never. Not again. Look at the mess of trouble you got yourself in last time I left.” 

For a moment, Richie thought Eddie might take offense, but he just nodded and took a swig of Richie’s drink. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Because your life’s gone completely according to plan without me watching your back. Trashmouth.”


	8. Folie a Huit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What could have made her peaceful with a mind  
That nobleness made simple as a fire,  
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind  
That is not natural in an age like this,  
Being high and solitary and most stern?  
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?  
Was there another Troy for her to burn?”  
— W. B. Yeats, “No Second Troy”

“Wuh-wuh-wuh-we still h-h-haven’t decided what t-t-t-to tell her,” Bill ground out. 

“So nobody told her anything about IT?” Eddie asked, hands in his pockets. 

Bev sighed. “Do you think she’d believe us?”

“She’s a psychiatrist. She’d p-p-p-probably send us all t-t-t-to the nuthouse.” 

“What if she can help?” Eddie asked. “I mean, for all we know, the government knows crap like IT exists. They’re just keeping it a secret, like aliens, or UFOs, or—” 

“—or SCPs,” Richie added. 

“Yes, thank you. Wait, what?”   
“Never mind,” Mike interrupted. “She’s not equipped for this. It has to be us. We’re the only ones who know how to beat IT.” 

“But we don’t, though!” Richie cried, exasperated. “We got lucky last time, Mike! We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing!” 

“Richie—” 

“Sewers!” Roxanne shouted. She slid down the bannister, landing in a crouch. Her wife grabbed her by the back of her jacket and yanked her upright, like a mother cat placing its kitten on her feet. She was holding a rolled-up map of Derry under her arm. She booked it into the hotel conference room, pinning the map up on the wall. It was marked with tick marks denoting the locations of the abductions. Connecting them all was a web of strokes of yellow highlighter. “The sewer system,” Roxanne gasped, tapping the lines with her forefinger. “It connects all the abduction sites. The two this month, the ones from twenty-seven years ago...it all fits. Daisy Saunders stored her cigarettes under the manhole by her house. Tell me, did any of you ever play in the sewer system when you were kids?” 

The Losers gaped, staring at each other. Bill answered first.

“Nuh-nuh-nuh-no.” 

She shrugged. 

“Fair enough. ’S probably why you’re still alive.” She turned to Michelle. “Chelle, I want you to organize—oh, hell, what am I saying. I’ve only got a five person PD at my disposal, and only one of these fat fucks can fit down a manhole. You and I are gonna have to start in the morning.”

“No!” Eddie shouted. Roxanne turned, eyes narrowed. “You can’t go down there,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

“I can handle myself, Eddie. There could be kids down there who need help.”

“No. You don’t understand. There’s something down there.” 

“Eddie,” Mike hissed. 

“Mike,” Richie warned. 

“Both of you, can it. What’s down there?” Roxanne asked, stepping forwards. She was wearing a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, a red coral necklace, and black heels. Her dark hair was fluffed into a nest framing her face. “Eddie, talk to me.”   
“A clown,” Eddie said. “There’s a clown that lives down there and eats people.” 

Roxanne didn’t respond at first. She pulled out a chair and sat down. Michelle followed her lead, watching her wife carefully out of the corner of her eye. Eddie and Richie followed suit. 

“Tell me about this clown.” 

“IT’s not a clown, not really,” Eddie said. “IT takes different shapes based on what you’re most afraid of. To me, it was a leper. IT feeds on fear.”

“It’s all true,” Richie said. “We’ve all seen IT. You don’t believe us, do you?”

“I believe that you believe it,” she said slowly. “I believe that there’s something living down there. But I’m not ready to believe in a demon clown just yet.”

“So you think we, what? Suffered some sort of trauma, and we suppressed it into a clown living in the sewer and eating people? How is that less weird than getting molested?” 

“Fair point,” Roxanne conceded. “I mean, I’ve heard of folie a deux before, but never folie a six. Let’s assume that the killer is this shapeshifting monster. When did you see it last?”

They told her the whole story. Eddie and Richie did most of the talking, with Bev and Ben cutting in occasionally. Bill and Mike were silent. Roxanne interrupted every now and again to clarify something, jotting down notes in her leather-bound journal, and Michelle watched skeptically, one eyebrow slightly raised. When they were finally done, Roxanne sat back, face carefully neutral. 

“So?” Richie asked, voice falsely jovial. “You gettin’ ready to call the men with the butterfly nets and the white coats?” 

She shook her head.

“I need a drink.”

“Does that mean you believe us?” Ben asked.

“It means I need a drink.” She got up and crossed over to the minibar, and bent down to open it, only to recoil. It was empty, save for one red balloon. “What the—” 

Michelle jumped upright and grabbed Roxanne’s arm, pointing at the doorway. Standing there was a middle-aged man in a green button-down and khakis. His head was shaved, and he wore a brown goatee and bifocals. He was utterly unremarkable. None of this accounted for the extremity of fear Roxanne seemed to find herself in. She drew her weapon with shaking hands and pointed it at the figure. “On your knees, motherfucker! Get the fuck down!” 

“Roxanne,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“I’m not kidding—”

“Just between us, Agent, I have to ask you. Did you ever really plan on keeping him safe? Or was he just bait to you?” 

“You’re scum,” she hissed. “A killer.”

“You’ve got a lot of words for me, Roxanne, but did you ever consider how at the base of it, we’re just the same? He was a tool to me, a blunt tool, sure, got me into just as many messes as he got me out of, but a tool nonetheless, and he was a tool to you, too.” 

“You’re wrong!” 

“Then why’d you use him like one? To do your dirty work, get in on the ground floor, so you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty…” The man’s voice started to change, getting closer to IT’s voice, the voice of the clown. The voice of Pennywise. “Oh, Roxanne, I do think it’s time for you to leave. We all float down here, and I think you’d better get out before you do the same. After all, you’ve seen what happens when you drag your friends into this crazy little game of ours, and she—” IT pointed at Michelle, who gave IT the finger promptly and with vigor “—she’ll float too, Rosie, you bet your fur, she’ll float too…” 

Roxanne went to fire, but the gun jammed, and then the lights flickered, and when they came back on, IT was gone. Where IT had been standing there were only six or seven cockroaches on the carpet. Roxanne went to holster her weapon, but her hand was shaking so badly she missed. She dropped it, then flew upstairs to her room. 

Michelle bent down to pick up the gun and put it on the table. She crossed to the whiteboard on the conference room wall, uncapped a marker, and began to write. 

“You’re probably a little confused,” she wrote. “We came off a bad case.” She wrote the letter R, then erased it. “The DEA lost a chess match with a meth kingpin. They muffed the arrest, and he managed to slip away and kill our informant.” She stopped for a moment, shaking out her wrist. “Roxanne and him were close. She really tried to protect him. He was a good kid who made some bad choices. He didn’t deserve to die.” Michelle erased the writing on the board to make more space. “She took it hard. Doesn’t trust her instincts anymore.” 

“Should you go after her?” Richie asked. 

“I’ll catch her on the ricochet.”

Just as she put down the marker, Roxanne flew past her, holding a brown shoulder bag, a lacquered cherry wood box, and a lighter. She threw open the door and plunked down on the step outside. Roxanne flicked open the box, withdrawing a joint, and flicked the lighter, but her hand was shaking too badly to make contact with the end of the joint. Michelle walked up next to her and took the lighter, holding it steady. Roxanne took a deep drag and panted, taking a few deep breaths. 

“How the fuck can you be so goddam calm? That, that, that was fucking crazy!”she hissed, looking up at Michelle, who shrugged. “I mean, I, I, I’m a medical doctor,” Roxanne said. “A woman of science. But I will freely admit…” She picked up a twitching cockroach with a pair of pincers drawn from her brown bag “...that I’ve never seen shit like this before.” As she signed, Eddie, who spoke ASL, provided a whisper-translation.

“Before my grandmother died, she used to tell me stories about ghosts and monsters, La Llorona, chupacabras, demons.” She raised her shirt to reveal a tattoo of a skeleton arrayed in green and yellow robes like those worn by the Virgin Mary in the stained-glass windows of the Catholic church Richie had gone to as a child. “Santa Muerte, clandestinely worshipped in colonial Spain. Sure, it was sort of a fuck you to my adoptive parents at first, but I was always thinking about that sort of thing. Never really believed, but never disbelieved, either. So it isn't normal. So it isn’t human. So what? It’s still killing kids, and it’s our job to take it down.”

“Some days I can barely get out of bed, Chelle. How’m I supposed to take down a demon? Not that I necessarily believe that’s what it is,” she amended hastily. “This could be a stress-induced hallucination. I could be asleep.”

“Do you feel asleep?” Michelle asked. 

“No,” she admitted. “You know, I used to feel like I could do anything. At twenty-five, thirty-five, forty-five, hell, even last year, I felt like I could do anything. Now, I just feel like I’m out of my depth, and people are dying because I’m drowning, because my reach exceeds my grasp. I don’t think I can do this.”

“You won’t have to,” Richie said. “We took it down once. Forced it to go into hibernation early. We can help you. Or, rather, you can help us. We could use a doctor. And I’m sure your wife is handy with a gun. None of us have that kind of expertise.” 

Michelle nodded. 

“I don’t want to brag, I’ve got an A-5 shotgun, a Dragunov sniper rifle, a Colt Python, and two Beretta 9mms in my trunk.”

“One for each hand?” Bev asked eagerly. 

“No, that only works in the movies. One for me, one for her.” 

“I hate guns,” Roxanne said. “I almost never carry. Here, though. I got a bad feeling about this place from the beginning. For all the good it’ll do. There’s a lot of groundwork to lay before we go after this thing, though. We need a profile. We have to figure out what exactly you did to throw it of its game. But before that, you’re probably confused. That man—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie said. “Really.”

Roxanne held the lacquered cherry wood box carefully, turning it over and running her fingers along its smooth surface. 

“I was in New Mexico,” she said. “Before. You know, it was supposed to be a cakewalk. I was just consulting. In and out in a month.” She swallowed hard, unable to look at the Losers. “It didn’t go well.” 

“So you’re here.” 

She turned around, still clutching the box in her hand. 

“I can’t stop. If I stop, I’ll feel it. I can’t keep—” she shook her head angrily, eyes shimmering “—I have to work. So long as I can just keep myself a hair ahead of it, I’ll be all right. Stick and move, my dad used to say. Stick and move.”

“I get it,” Richie said, and he meant it. “We’re glad to have you. You don’t owe us an explanation. You said we needed a profile. What can we do to help you get it?”

Roxanne cleared her throat, shaking away the cobwebs. “Okay. The first thing we have to look at is victimology. Eddie, you said your mother still lives in town?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie stammered. “I—I haven’t—I’d rather not—”

“You don’t have to talk to her,” Roxanne said decisively. She rose, half-smoked joint in her hand, and turned to the Losers. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. But I think she’s our best path to the evil at the heart of this town. I’m going to sweat her. Find out what’s the matter with her. That’ll tell me what’s the matter with this town. But I won’t do it without your say-so. So. Say-so?” She looked at Eddie inquisitively. Richie reached down and, unbeknownst to the others, squeezed Eddie’s hand reassuringly. He looked up and saw Eddie smile the small, private smile that had always been reserved just for Richie. 

“So,” Eddie said confidently. 

Roxanne, who had missed nothing, threw the joint to the ground and stomped on it, then looked up at Michelle and grinned. 

“He said so,” she said.


	9. The Sleep of Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: GRAPHIC DISCUSSION OF SEXUAL ASSAULT   
This is a short one, but I wanted to seclude the possible triggering stuff from the important stuff that comes afterwards.
> 
> “‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!  
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—  
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if within the distant Aidenn,  
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—  
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.’   
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”  
-Edgar Allen Poe, “The Raven.”

Richie woke up to a soft rapping on his hotel room door. Glancing over at the clock radio on his bedside, he realized it was just after midnight. He got up and opened the door to see Eddie standing outside the door. He was wearing only a soft white v-neck and a pair of purple silk pajama pants. His feet were bare and his hair was curly. He looked so utterly beautiful that Richie couldn’t breathe for a second. 

“Can I come in?”

Richie nodded, speechless. “Thanks. Richie, I need something from you.”

“Shoot,” Richie managed.

“You want to leave, don’t you?” Eddie asked, arms crossed across his chest. 

“Yes,” Richie admitted. “I want to get out. I want to get you out of here before you have to have anything to do with that rancid bitch who raised you.” 

“You can’t leave me, Richie,” Eddie whimpered. “Please.” 

“I won’t,” Richie protested. “You know I’d never do that.” 

Eddie wrapped his arms around Richie, pressing his face into Richie’s neck. Before he knew it, Eddie was kissing his neck and cheek up to his mouth. 

“Don’t leave me, Richie, please don’t leave me…”

Eddie’s hands slipped down to reach into his waistband.

“No, no. Stop. Eds, we have to stop.”

“Why, Richie?” Eddie asked. His long fingers were playing with Richie’s waistband, stroking the skin of his belly. He was gorgeous and sexy and everything that Richie had ever wanted. 

But.

“Eddie, you’re doing this because you want to keep me here. And I will. I’ll stay. But if we’re going to do...something, it has to be because you want to. I can’t—I won’t—take advantage of you. I won’t leave you. You never have to worry about me leaving you.” 

Eddie was silent. He wasn’t even breathing.

Oh God. This isn’t real, is it? 

“Oh, Richie,” a familiar voice growled. “You just had to look my gift horse in the mouth, didn’t you?” 

Eddie, silent now, peeled himself off Richie and sort of shivered. His form molted a bit and then  
he was on the ground, hands tied behind his back, blindfolded. 

“Hello?” he asked, his voice quavering in the trademark Eddie way that signified that he was scared but trying to be brave. “Richie? Anyone?” 

“Go ahead,” Pennywise giggled. “Take what you want.” The clown sauntered out of the closet, walking towards Eddie.

“Richie! Please, I need help! Richie, are you there?” 

Richie couldn’t move as Pennywise advanced on Eddie. Every fiber of his body screamed at him to launch himself forwards and tear Pennywise apart, but he was just frozen. Pennywise put a hand on Eddie’s face, running a thumb over his lips.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” Richie hissed. 

“Have him, Richie,” Pennywise crooned. “You know you want to. Put him on his back and fuck him raw.” One gloved hand pulled up Eddie’s shirt, revealing his pale stomach and two deep pink, pebbled nipples. “Sure, he’ll fight you at first, but after you toss off inside him the first time, it’ll take the fight right out of him. You can pretend you love him, that you want to get married, adopt a little dog, but all that’s just a workaround. I know what’s inside you. Why have him in your marriage bed when you could just chain him naked in your basement, keep him cuffed to your bed, a sweet, tight little toy to pump your come into? You’re no LOVER, Richie. I know what you want.”

“Richie, help me!” Eddie shrieked. 

Richie sobbed, helpless. 

“Well, fine!” Pennywise shrieked, cackling. “If you don’t want him, then I’ll have him!” 

“Richie!” Eddie screamed. “Richie, WAKE UP!”


	10. Reunion, Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I woke up in a city by the sea,  
You woke me up,  
You woke me up,  
You woke me up.  
I woke up in a city full of rain,  
The world had stopped,  
I woke up to feel no pain.  
It’s so clear just what I’m doing here  
The blinding obvious is what you showed to me.” 
> 
> Marillion, “Woke Up,” Happiness is the Road, perf. Steve Hogarth, Steve Rothery, Mark Kelly, Ian Mosely, and Pete Trewavas. Intact Records (Zurich, 2008).

Richie came back slow. The horrific hallucination faded to black, and then he the world swam into focus. His head was pillowed in someone’s lap, and someone was gently smacking his cheeks. A high-pitched whine filled his ears. Is that the smoke alarm? Richie thought.Then he took a breath and the noise stopped. Oops. 

“Richie,” someone sobbed above him. “Richie, please wake up!” A tear slipped down and plinked against his glasses. Another quickly followed it, impacting against his lips. 

That voice, Richie thought. “Eds?” he croaked. 

Eddie wailed, bringing his head down to press his lips against Richie’s forehead. 

“Oh, God, Rich,” he moaned. “I thought you were—” He wailed. 

Roxanne rushed downstairs, turning the corner fast. She was wearing a too-big Opus for President t-shirt over some mid-calf yoga pants and black flats. Her beat-up brown leather bag was slung over her shoulder. 

“Richie’s sick!” Eddie bawled. “What TOOK you so long?” 

“Spaghetti, it’s okay,” Richie said wearily. 

Roxanne knelt down, pulling a pen light from her bag. He remembered her poorly-healed breaks, and cringed at the crunching-gravel sound of her hip joint. She shone the light in Richie’s eyes. He winced and looked away. 

“Follow my finger,” she instructed.

“He could’ve had a seizure or a stroke,” Eddie told her. “Are you checking for a seizure or a stroke?” 

“It’s not a seizure,” Roxanne said. “Richie, you had a panic attack. I need you to try to slow down your breathing. In for five, hold for two, out for five.”

Eddie cupped Richie’s forehead in one cool hand. Unlike in his dream, he was just wearing a pair of blue boxers and a Pussy Riot t-shirt. He looked exhausted and terrified. Richie had never loved him more than he did in that moment. He felt his bones creak with the weight of that love. 

“I’m taking him to the hospital,” Eddie said. 

“Eds, I just want to stay here, go back to bed.”

“You could be having a neurological event. We need to get you evaluated—”

“Richie, you’re gonna be all right. There’s no need to go to the E.R. I know you probably feel a little weak and shaky, but if you watch your breathing and try to focus on the sound of my voice, you’ll be okay very soon. I know it felt like you’re dying, and Eddie, I know it looks scary, but there’s no physical danger.” 

Eddie took a shaky breath and burst into tears. Richie struggled to sit up and wrapped his arms around Eddie. 

“I’m okay, Spaghetti. Don’t worry your pretty little head about your ol’ pal Richie.”

“You should get some sleep,” Roxanne said. “Both of you.” She helped Richie up and patted him on the back. He began to shuffle off to his room, realizing that Eddie was following him. 

“Eddie, what—”

“I’m coming with you,” he said shakily. 

“Eds, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Richie said dully. 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Eddie said stubbornly. “I’m not going anywhere. I nuh-nuh-need to know you’re okay.” His voice broke, and he screwed his eyes shut, like he was in great pain. 

“Eddie—”

“You really scared me, you know!” Eddie snapped. When he looked up, Richie saw tears running down his cheeks. “What the hell happened? What did you see?” 

“It was IT,” Richie sighed. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“I came to see you,” Eddie whispered. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see if you were up, too. But you were talking in your sleep. Then you just started s-screaming.” He hunched over, rubbing his arms. “It was horrible.”

“I’m sorry, Eds.”

They entered the room in silence. 

“I heard what you said, Richie,” Eddie said quietly. “IT made you think you were talking to me.”  
Richie’s heart sank. 

“God. Eds, I—”

Eddie grabbed his hands and held them for a moment. Then he placed them on his hips. Richie’s heart stuttered as he felt the warmth of Eddie’s skin through the worn fabric of his shirt. 

“I thought it was incredibly sweet,” Eddie said. “Before it got scary, I mean. IT wanted you to...you know. But you said no.”

Richie felt like he was going to burst into tears.

“It’s not right, Eddie.”

“What’s not right?”

“I can’t take advantage of you like that.”

Eddie reached out, and after hesitating for a split second, took Richie’s hand, tracing the lines of his palm with fingers that trembled. 

“I don’t know what you saw. But right here, right now, you’re not.”

“You don’t want this, Eddie—”

“Who says I don’t?” he asked quietly. 

For the first time since arriving in Derry, Richie looked directly into his best friend’s eyes. He’d been avoiding that kind of intimate contact because he was afraid that if he accessed that connection, he’d be lost. But, of course, that was ridiculous, because he’d been lost 32 years ago when he had met Eddie for the first time. His eyes were round and sincere and swollen from crying.

Over me, Richie thought, and he felt ill. 

“Eds,” he whispered. “I know you know how I feel, but you can’t—”

“Shut up,” Eddie said evenly. 

Richie shut up.

“Don’t presume to tell me how I feel, Richie Tozier. I grew up at the same time and in the same town that you did. I remember what my mother used to say. ‘Stay away from the queers, Eddie.’ ‘Careful who watches you in the showers, Eddie.’ ‘Don’t let strangers talk to you, Eddie, because they might be fags who want to steal you and indoctrinate you and turn you into a fag, too.’ It’s bullshit. I know you, Richie. You’re my best friend. And you’re not a predator. And neither am I.” He brushed a lock of hair off of Richie’s forehead with gentle hands. “I’m gay. I was gay. I’ll always be gay. For you, yes, but not because of you. I loved you then, and I love you now. And I am a grown-ass adult with a working brain, and that is why you should respect my decision to sleep with you. If, that is, you do want to, and you haven’t just been playing some kind of cruel joke on me.” 

Richie’s mouth was dry and his head was empty.

“Eddie,” he whimpered. “God.” 

When Eddie kissed him, he thought he was going to burst like a firecracker and die. It was the only thing to do, because Eddie’s lips were soft and warm against his, and he tasted like Scope, and he smelled like bergamot and green tea, but mostly like stale terror-sweat, because this wasn’t an unwholesome hallucination or teasing wet dream, this was real. Richie wondered for a moment (a moment, of course, was about how long he could sustain a coherent thought in this state) how he could’ve even confused the supplicating, diffident waif of Pennywise’s conjuring with his stubborn, brave, and feral best friend. This Eddie was livelier and more solid, bullying his way into Richie’s mouth while swinging a leg over Richie’s thighs to crouch over his lap. 

Richie clasped Eddie’s back, holding him tightly, reveling in the smooth planes of the muscles of his shoulders and tracing the knobby bumps of his spine. Eddie, however, was more impatient. He grabbed Richie’s wrist, placing his hand under his shirt. Richie blushed at the feel of Eddie’s soft belly under his palm, and summoned the courage to move northwards to rub at his nipple. 

“Unh,” Eddie gasped, pulling back. “Hold on.”

For a moment, Richie was terrified that he’d gone too far, but Eddie was only stopping to take off his shirt, hesitating a bit at uncovering himself. 

“Don’t be scared,” Richie said, “You’re beautiful.”

Eddie flushed a beautiful dusky rose. 

“Shut up,” he said.

“I mean it,” Richie insisted. He traced a hand along Eddie’s calf, up his thigh, stopping to thumb at his happy trail, tweak a nipple, resulting in a muted gasp, finally stopping at cupping his cheek. “You’re gorgeous, Eds.”

“Come on. I’m sure you’ve picked up dozens of hot guys in clubs all over the country—”

“Gay bars don’t book me,” Richie interrupted. “Only drunk straight guys have bad enough taste to buy the bullshit they feed me. And I ain’t picked up any guys.”

Eddie looked up at him. Lust, hope, and skepticism were mingled on his face. “Really. Never.”

“Nuh-uh. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m fucking closeted as shit. And anyways, I didn’t want any hot guys in clubs.”

“And why not?” 

Richie laughed. 

“Because they weren’t you, Spaghetti. I thought that was obvious.” 

Eddie gasped involuntarily, flushing a deep crimson. 

“Rich!” 

With renewed fervence, Eddie ripped off Richie’s button-down and undid his belt. He pushed down his pants and wrapped his long fingers around Richie’s cock. Richie was as hard as he had ever been. Eddie spat in his hand and started to stroke Richie again, working slowly, thumb occasionally sweeping over the head. 

“Oh, honey,” Richie gasped, throwing his head back, thighs tensing. Eddie paused. 

“Take off your t-shirt,” he said. “I wanna see you.”

Richie blushed. 

“I don’t wanna disappoint you, Eds, I—”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, yanking Richie’s shirt over his head. He was pale and more than a little hairy, yes, a little doughy around the middle, but Eddie’s eyes lit up. He pressed kisses to Richie’s collarbone, chest, and happy trail, spending extra time at the crease of his thigh. Overcome with emotion, Richie grabbed blindly at Eddie’s forearm.

“Come back up here, please. I want to kiss you.” 

Eddie climbed up gladly, giving Richie a chance to flip them so that Eddie’s head was against the pillow, framed by Richie’s forearms. Eddie giggled, his soft brown hair spread out on the pillow like a halo. He looked so absolutely beautiful and carefree that Richie wanted nothing more than for them to stay in that moment forever. Eddie opened his big brown eyes, mouth softening into a kind smile. Richie cupped one soft cheek in his hand. 

“I always want to remember this,” Richie said. “If I lived a million years, I don’t think I could ever be happier than I am right now.”

Eddie extended a finger, tracing Richie’s smile lines and rubbing his lower lip. 

“That sounds like a challenge,” he whispered. 

Eddie kissed him, slow and sweet, hands cupping Richie’s face. The other hand slipped down to cup Richie’s ass. “Mmnh,” he whimpered. “What do you want to do to me, Richie?”

Richie couldn’t answer for a moment, because the wording reminded him of the dream and he wasn’t brave, not like Eddie was. 

“What do you want to do to me?” he retorted, mouth dry. 

Eddie blushed.

“I wanna suck you,” he whispered. “I want you to suck me. I want you to fuck me. I want to sit on your face. Not tonight, because I need to clean up first. I want to fuck you. Not tonight, because you’d need to clean up first. So. I want to suck you. Can I?”

“Yes,” Richie whimpered. “Fuck, yes. Where do you want—” 

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” Eddie instructed. 

“Bossy,” Richie teased. “Do you have—”

“No condom,” Eddie said. “I trust you.”

“Fuck,” Richie whimpered. Eddie was kneeling in front of him, miles of unmarked, unblemished, olive skin on display. His hair was mussed, his pink lips wet and swollen, sloe eyes hooded and hazy with lust. His cock was long and slender, wickedly curved, a mouthwatering watermelon- pink. Richie’s cock was thicker, webbed with blue veins, skin soft as velvet. The head was an angry purple, dripping precum and throbbing at Eddie’s gentle touches. 

“You’ve got a gorgeous dick, Richie,” Eddie said. Richie blushed, opening his mouth to deny it, but he broke off when Eddie wrapped his lips around the very tip of Richie’s cock. His tongue flicked out to dig into Richie’s slit, making his hips jerk. He opened his mouth wider, taking Richie in deeper, rubbing the part that wasn’t in his mouth. Richie looked down, seeing Eddie’s red, swollen, spit-slicked mouth stretched tight around his cock, and he made an embarrassing noise, somewhere between a moan and a shriek. He slid a hand into Eddie’s hair, tugging it. He reached down to stroke Eddie’s cheek, rubbing his throat, petting his hair. Eddie moaned, the sound muffled by his cock. 

“Please,” Eddie whimpered. 

“Eddie,” Richie gasped. He tugged at his hair. “Eddie, I’m gonna come.” 

Eddie pulled off and sat back, vigorously stripping Richie’s cock, aiming it at his face, eyes closed, mouth open. “You want me to come on your pretty face?” 

“Yes,” he whimpered. “Yes, Richie, do it.” Eddie sucked on two of his fingers and reached behind himself, whimpering as he slipped first one finger into his hole, then a second. Richie couldn’t take it anymore. With a cry of Eddie’s name, he came. The first rope landed on his cheek, the second in his mouth, the third across his chest and chin. Richie reached down and took a glob of come onto his finger and rubbed it onto Eddie’s nipple until it shone. Eddie giggled. 

“You freak,” he said fondly. 

“I’ll show you a freak,” Richie faux-growled, taking another swipe with his finger and smearing it on Eddie’s nose like sunscreen. 

“Rich!” he shrieked, swatting at it. Eddie wiped the smear off his nose with a finger and then, without a hint of self-consciousness, licked it off. “You taste good,” he whispered. 

Richie gasped, face cherry-red. “Eddie Kaspbrak, are you into come?”

Eddie blushed too, and froze in the act of sucking his finger clean one more time. “Just yours,” he whispered. 

Richie went down on his knees and grabbed Eddie’s chin, pulling him up into a passionate kiss. It began rough and heated, but as it went on, Eddie’s hands came up to cup Richie’s cheeks, and Richie’s arms pulled Eddie close, and it became much more tender. They broke the kiss momentarily, to breathe, and Eddie panted:

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Richie slid a hand into Eddie’s hair, petting the side of his face, and laid him down gently on the floor. He kissed down Eddie’s jaw, licking down his neck to suck his nipples, kissing down his belly to nuzzle at his dick. Eddie shivered, giggling softly. 

“What? I’m trying to be sexy,” Richie complained.

“It’s nothing. Your stubble tickles. Try your mouth,” Eddie advised. 

“Well, you’re a little forwards, aren’t you, Miss? On our first date, no less!” 

“If you don’t touch my dick right now I swear to God I will fucking thump you.” 

Richie stroked Eddie’s dick leisurely, gazing studying it closely. It was so immaculate it could’ve been a sex toy, pink and flushed. Richie’s mouth watered and he ached to taste him. So he did. Eddie cried out, back arched in a beautiful curve. Richie covered every inch of the sensitive head with his tongue, lapping up Eddie’s precome with every stroke. Above him, Eddie was making small, shocked gasps, punctuated by the occasional cry of pleasure. The salty liquid kept flowing into his mouth, making his lips sticky. 

“God, you’re leaking,” Richie whispered hoarsely, voice a little rough. “You’re getting wet like a girl.” 

“Richie,” Eddie said softly. He reached down, smoothing down Richie’s curls. “I love you.”

Richie, of course, chose that moment to try to take Eddie into his throat. He gagged, and the resulting pressure pushed Eddie over the edge. Richie rolled off him, gagging a lung up. 

“Are you all right?” Eddie gasped. “Jesus, Rich, I’m sorry—”

Richie waved him off, still coughing a little. “Just went down the wrong pipe, Eds. Nothing to ’pologize for.”

“Hmm,” Eddie mused, mouth curled in a mirthful smile. “You, Richie Tozier, are truly a sex god.” 

Richie stood up, knees popping, and scooped Eddie up, carrying him bridal-style to the bed. He laid him down against the pillows and crouched down next to him. After a brief hesitation, he gave him a brief kiss on the nose. Eddie grinned, blushing. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Better?” 

“Much. How about you?” 

“Better than I have in years,” Eddie admitted. He stretched, the buttons of his spine popping out in sequence. 

“Your wife never made you feel like that?” Richie asked, immediately regretting it. He could’ve slapped himself, but he couldn’t help it—the words had just slipped out of him, the old jealousy coming back just as easy as breathing, the way his blood had boiled whenever someone else had touched Eddie, or God forbid that horrible freak Bowers—

“No,” Eddie said softly. “We’ve only had sex twice. Both times were years ago. It was miserable.” 

Richie reached for his hand, and Eddie took it gratefully. “I’m sorry, Richie. I really am. It should’ve been you. It should’ve been us.” He started to weep. “Richie, God, Rich, we’ve lost so much time.” 

Eddie wept, and Richie held him. There was nothing he could say to make the pain go away, or to lessen the loss. He could just make sure Eddie felt his presence, knew that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
By the name of Eddie;  
And this maiden he lived with no other thought  
Than to love and be loved by me,” Richie recited, pressing his lips to Eddie’s temple.

“You’re throwing off the meter,” Eddie complained, his voice muffled by Richie’s chest. Richie smiled a tiny, private smile and continued. 

“I was a child and he was a child,  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
But we loved with a love that was more than love—  
I and my darling Eddie—  
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven  
Coveted him and me.”

And this was the reason that, long ago,  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
“A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling  
My beautiful Eddie;  
So that his highborn kinsmen came  
And bore him away from me,  
To shut him up in a sepulchre  
In this kingdom by the sea.”

“She’s hardly highborn,” Eddie grumped, “but she said you were a bad influence. And she was right.”

“The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,  
Went envying him and me—  
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,  
In this kingdom by the sea)  
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,  
Chilling my beautiful Eddie.” 

Richie’s voice shook for a moment. He was changing the words, he knew Eddie knew, but here, in this dangerous town, in this dangerous time, he couldn’t speak the word in relation to Eddie. 

“But our love it was stronger by far than the love  
Of those who were older than we—  
Of many far wiser than we—  
And neither the angels in Heaven above  
Nor the demons down under the sea  
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beamed, without bringing me dreams  
Of the beautiful Eddie;  
And the stars never rose, but I felt the bright eyes  
Of the beautiful Eddie…” 

A soft snore came from Eddie. He’d fallen plumb asleep on Richie’s chest. Richie picked him up gently, gathering him to his chest, and slipped him under the covers. Richie went to pull back slightly, give Eddie a little space, but Eddie followed him, pressing his face into Richie’s chest, snuffling wetly against his collarbone, fingers curled against his pecs. Richie promised himself that he’d stay up all night, that he wouldn’t waste a second of this, finally being able to hold Eddie, but the soft, wet sounds of Eddie breathing and the warmth of his compact little body lulled him to sleep within minutes.


	11. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Its snaky acids kiss.   
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults  
That kill, that kill, that kill.”  
—Sylvia Plath, “Elm.”   
TW: Discussion of child abuse

Richie fidgeted behind the two-way mirror. “Are you sure Eddie wants me here?” 

Michelle whipped out her stylus, fidgeted, and started to write. 

“He asked for you specifically. Are you worried about what you might hear?”

“Yeah, maybe a little. I tried to protect him, Michelle, honest. From her, from Bowers, from everybody. I know it didn’t work, but I guess I’m just scared of seeing how miserably I failed.” 

Michelle jerked her head at the door. 

“Go get a cup of coffee, Richie. Take a breath. Take the manic energy down a couple notches.   
You’re supposed to be a calming presence. Everything’s gonna be just fine.” 

Richie nodded and jogged out the door, almost bumping into Eddie. 

“Hold tight, Eds, I’ll be right back. You want coffee?” 

“Uh, sure. Cream and sugar, Ritch, and don’t call me that!” The last bit was shouted at Richie’s receding back. 

Michelle snickered. “That’s always how it is, isn’t it?” 

“Wh-whaddaya mean?”

“We’re the ones that sit and listen, aren’t we?” 

“Sit and listen?”

“I could listen to her talk all day, you know. Jokes, riddles, stories, silly things, serious things, non sequiturs, poems…”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Eddie muttered, but his blush proved that he was lying. 

“After a hard day, all I want to do is sit at home and listen to her, the one person I who really knows me, what I am, what I need, what I want, what I’m capable of. Nobody else. Just her.” Michelle paused. “People think I’m stupid, you know.” 

“Oh, no. That’s not—”

“It’s okay. Really. I don’t care. I can’t talk, so people think I’m stupid. They’ve thought it all my life. But it doesn’t matter. Because she knows I’m not. She knows I’m smart. And he knows you’re strong.” 

“Thank you,” Eddie whispered. 

“One cup of melted coffee ice cream, coming right up,” Richie interrupted, pushing a cup of taupe liquid into Eddie’s hand. 

“Sweartagod, Rich, just because I don’t like for it to taste like engine degreaser—”

Michelle tapped their shoulders and nodded at the mirror. 

“Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Roxanne said from inside the room. “Have a seat.”

Sonia Kaspbrak was still alive, and she was still evil. Richie was shocked at the irrational surge of hatred he felt at the sight of her, how quickly the loathing flooded back. It was a special brand of ire he felt, reserved only for those who hurt his Eds. 

“I hope you’ve got a good reason for having a police officer break up my bridge club,” Sonia snapped. “I was absolutely humiliated.”

Roxanne didn’t look up from the file. “Uh-huh. I’ve got some questions about your son.” 

“What do you want to know about Eddie?” 

“I want to know how long he’s been ill.”

“Oh, all his life,” Sonia said smugly. “He was a very ill baby. Very needy.” She went on, but Eddie and Richie weren’t paying attention. Instead, they were listening to Michelle explain the rules of the game. 

“This is going to be interesting,” she signed. “Roxanne got her start by working for Red Onion supermax prison doing interviews with violent offenders and risk assessments. An interview is a chess match, and Roxanne is Gary Kasparov. She’s always six steps ahead.”

“You told me he was a severe asthmatic, and that he had to carry a rescue inhaler at all times,” Roxanne said, “but I can’t find any medical records to back that up. Who diagnosed him?”

“Oh, things weren’t like that back in the day. Doctors trusted mothers. I knew what my baby needed.”

“Sure,” Roxanne said. “And you filled that prescription at Mr. Carr’s drugstore, correct?” 

“Yes.”

“You know, I was trying to track him down the other day. Did you know he moved to Maryland in 1988?”

“I knew he left.”

“Imagine my surprise when I found that he’d been incarcerated in 1992 in the Brockbridge Correctional Center in Jessup for raping a ten year old boy.”

Eddie’s grip on Richie’s hand became so tight he could feel his bones creak. Richie pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together from shoulder to calf. “Imagine my further surprise,” she continued, “when he told my colleague that you’d asked him to doctor up a placebo to convince your son he was ill. Imagine my even further surprise when my colleague told him he was full of shit, that he wouldn’t commit a crime like that for no payoff, and he admitted that you’d bought him off with pornographic images of your own child that you took after putting ground-up Quaaludes in his chocolate milk.”

The blood drained from Eddie’s face, and he buried his head in Richie’s chest. Richie reached up, one hand cupping the back of his head, pressing him close, fingers tangled in his hair, and the other still entwined with Eddie’s shaking fingers.

“You don’t have to stay,” Michelle signed. 

“No,” Eddie whispered. “I do.”

“He’s a liar,” Sonia said. Her face was the color of a heart attack. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Roxanne said. “But then he gave us the address of his storage unit, and we found this.” She dealt out a series of Polaroids, leaving them on the table in front of Sonia. Richie felt ill with rage. Roxanne and Sonia sat in silence for a moment, before Roxanne broke it. 

“You have two seconds to improve my mood,” Roxanne said. 

“I don’t believe this,” Sonia cried, chest heaving. “You’d believe some degenerate over me? I am a mother! I would never do anything to hurt my child!”

“What about Richie Tozier?” Roxanne asked. “They were best friends, right? Is it possible that he knew about Carr?”

“He was a horrible influence,” Sonia said, awfully sanctimonious. 

Eddie made a small sound, something like “ouagh!’ or “whoof!” Richie, despite the extremity of loathing he found himself in, managed a small smile and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“I wouldn’t have put it past him to have known,” Sonia continued. “He wasn’t right. I always thought he might’ve been a queer.” 

“But your son loved him,” Roxanne pressed.

Sonia bristled. “They were in the same friend group.”

“Well, they spent all their free time together, bought each other ice cream and milkshakes, shared comic books…” 

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“What, that your son was in love with his best friend?” 

“In love wi—how dare—my son was not a faggot!” 

Roxanne leaned forwards, eyes narrowed. 

“Why was Richie Tozier such a threat to you, Sonia? It’s not normal for a mother to be jealous of her child’s friends. Were you afraid that your son loved him more than he loved you? Well, he did. Eddie doesn’t see you anymore, but he still sees Richie. Hell, he more-than-sees him. This is your last chance to come clean with me before you end up in gen pop of a women’s prison, and we’ll see how you like it when your cellmate more-than-sees you. Because, you know, Carr told us something else. He told my colleague that you tried to blackmail him. That you said you’d finger him for a perv unless you did what you wanted. Which was to run over Richie Tozier with his car.” 

“Oh my God,” Eddie gasped. “Oh God. Oh jeez, oh my God, Richie, Richie, no…” 

“You conspired to have a thirteen year old child murdered for being friends with your son,” Roxanne snarled. “They have words for what’s wrong with you—borderline, narcissistic, fictitious disordered, but frankly, I’ve interviewed serial rapists that cut a more sympathetic figure. You may be outside the statute of limitations, but I swear to Christ that I will find a way to lock you up if it’s the last thing I do. Now listen to me, Mrs. Kaspbrak. I know that you abused your son medically, emotionally, and mentally. What I want to know is if the abuse ever became sexual.”

Eddie trembled. Richie held him tighter. Michelle grabbed his arm, a reassuring, warning weight. 

Right, Richie thought. Calming presence. Yeah right. 

“What kind of question is that?” Sonia asked tremulously. 

“The kind I already know the answer to,” Roxanne answered. 

“I’m leaving,” Sonia hissed. 

“Fine. I can’t hold you. Just know that there ain’t nowhere you can go that I can’t find you.” 

She got up, and Sonia got up, and as Sonia went out the back door, Roxanne stood at the table, breathing hard. Her face was a mask, and her eyes burned with more than mortal ire. Her red blouse was partially pulled out of her khaki slacks. When she opened the door and saw Richie and Eddie, she was clearly taken aback.   
“They’re not supposed to be here,” she hissed. “All that—Chelle—I just outed a sexual abuse victim!”

“He insisted, Rosie, I—” 

“No,” Eddie said, sniffling. “She’s right. I had to hear this. I wouldn’t take no for an answer.” 

“Did you—” She gestured at Richie. “I mean, I—”

“No, it’s okay. I just need a little—I need a little time.”

He walked out, hunched over, arms crossed across his stomach as if he was cold or fending off a blow. Roxanne tossed her hands in the air, face apprehensive. 

“Go after him, Chelle,” she said. “This is your mess.”


	12. Clarity of Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."  
— Jonathan Safran Froer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Michelle followed Eddie at a distance. She wasn’t too afraid of Roxanne holding a grudge. She’d felt sandbagged, but she’d be all right. There were too many secrets in this town, she thought. Eddie had wanted to get everything out in the open. That’s what he’d said. Some of that shit they hadn’t seen coming, but better to air it out than to let it fester. When he climbed the middle school, she waited ten minutes before following him. She climbed the fire escape and then the ladder. When she finally got to the top, Eddie was sitting on his knees on the edge, looking out over the town and the woods, which were starting to turn red and brown. A cool wind was blowing the bruised-looking clouds across the sky. Night was falling. His phone was ringing, but it wasn’t his wife. Richie’s name kept flashing across the screen. Michelle sat down next to him, legs crossed. 

“You gonna get that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, what am I going to tell him? He’s better off not knowing the mess my life has become. I don’t want him to worry about what’s happened to me. He doesn’t have to be a part of this, you know? I don’t think he should have to be. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need me.” 

“I was the one who found her, you know.” 

Eddie turned to look her in the eye. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“She didn’t turn up for our family dinner, so I went looking for her. When your wife works hunting down serial killers, you get paranoid. Her boss said she’d gone to see her old advisor, so I drove to Baltimore. I was pulling up to his house when I saw a dark shape moving on the road. I thought it was a wounded deer, so I stopped. It was her.” 

Eddie was silent. 

“She was dragging herself across the road. She couldn’t move her legs, but she was up on her elbows. I could see the blood trail shining in the moonlight. I had to pick her up and put her in the car. By the time I got her to Hopkins, she was so deep in shock I thought she was dead. It was three days before she woke up. Three days of bone marrow in the bloodstream, emergency surgeries, blood transfusions, sleepless nights. And that wasn’t the only time, either. Once she got caught in a mass breakout attempt at the Baltimore Asylum for the Criminally Insane, and they activated the electric floors. The skin on the palms of her hands and her knees just melted and sloughed off. She once almost got a faceful of shrapnel from an explosion.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Eddie asked quietly. 

“Because every single one of those moments where I feared for her life, when I felt everything slipping away from me was still infinitely better than being in the closet. Love is pain, Eddie. You can’t open yourself up to one while blocking out the other. If you won’t take that risk for your own sake, take it for his. I’m telling you, Eddie, it’s not too late to wake up.”

Eddie looked out at the town where he had been born and where he had fallen in love. 

“I feel like I have. Woken up, I mean. Coming back here was like waking up from a deep sleep. It’s going to sound horrible, because of the circumstances, but this...this is like a bright new morning. A new chance. I feel like a kid again.” He turned back to Michelle, eyes shining with tears. “I’d given up on fun. How sad is that? I’d forgotten how to have fun. But with Richie, everything’s so easy. And that’s what I’m scared of. It would be so easy to finally give myself what I want. But what if that’s selfish? I can be selfish about everything else in my life, but not about him.”

“Selfish is a word I’d never use to describe you. All this time, you’ve been living your life for someone else.”

“I know, I know. Now it’s time to live it for me.”

“Not yet,” she signed. “You don’t know what you want. And that’s fine. That’s what the closet does to you. Live it for Richie. He’s got your best interests at heart. Sometimes, when you’re going through a difficult period, you lose sight of the light at the end of the tunnel. But the people who love you—who really love you, I mean—always see it. So don’t trust yourself. Trust them.”

“I was out, Michelle,” Eddie admitted. “And then I married Myra. Roxanne said it was about the closet, but what if it’s just about me?”

“There’s a Sylvia Plath poem,” Michelle said. “Do you know it?”

“‘Not God but a swastika, so black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Facist, the boot in the face, the brute heart of a brute like you.”

She nodded. “That’s the one. But that’s not the right stanza.”

“At twenty I tried to die  
And get back, back, back to you.  
I thought even the bones would do.  
But they pulled me out of the sack,   
And they stuck me together with glue.   
And then I knew what to do.  
I made a model of you,  
A man in black with a Meinkampf look  
And a love of the rack and the screw.   
And I said I do, I do.” 

He sighed. 

“The black telephone’s off at the root,” Michelle finished. “The voices just can’t worm through. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” She paused. “It can be over. You don’t have to keep making the same mistakes. There’s no shame in turning back if you’ve gone down the wrong road.”

“I’m forty years old,” Eddie said. “How far d’you think I’ll get down the right one?”

Michelle didn’t answer. Instead, she just looked up at the sky. The clouds, a bruised, somber mass of indigo and violet cotton batting, arched over them like a vaulted ceiling. They were like a stormy mass of condensation pressing against the lid of this pressure-cooker of a town. 

“Just breathe,” Michelle signed. “Just be here. Feel the way you feel. Are you happy?”

“Yes.” His answer was almost instantaneous. “Happier than I’ve been in twenty-seven years.” 

“So be happy. You can deal with your wife in all due time. Everything stays, Eddie. You have time. You don’t have to understand what’s going on inside you. Don’t feel that you have to have everything sorted before being part of a couple. That’s what relationships are for: figuring things out together.”

“They say you have to love yourself before you can love someone else,” Eddie said. “Bullshit. I have never, ever loved myself. But him.” He shook his head. “Oh, God, him. I loved him so much that I forgot what hating myself felt like. Sometimes I wonder if he could see me, feel me, all those years. What must he think of me now, after learning that all this shit?” 

“Of you? He thinks the world of you, Eddie. What must he feel? Outraged on your behalf, most likely.”

“The world of me, huh?” Eddie mused. “I can’t imagine why.” He thought of Richie, who had tolerated every injustice life had thrown his way with relative equanimity, from beatings from Bowers to his parents’ icy disapproval and refusal to even attempt to understand him, but who had thrown a fit visible from space when Bowers (or Pennywise, for that matter) had deigned to even breathe in his direction. 

Michelle gave him a sad smile.

“I see the way she looks at me, and it used to scare me, because I knew she was wrong about me. I wasn’t what she thought I was. But now I see it for what it is: a challenge. I try every day to be the woman she thinks I already am.” She turned, the night winds blowing her ponytail out behind her and undulating a few rogue strands against her cheeks. “Roxanne gave me a strategy that she used back when she was an emergency room doctor doing critical care. Something goes wrong, and you open the gates, and let yourself feel the fear, panic, freeze. You count to five, letting the fear in, and you close the gates and go to work. So take some time. Here. With me. Panic. Then come back, and be brave, and take what you want.” 

“You ever feel like the rest of your life is about to start?” 

Michelle smiled. “A bridge, a roof, the third floor are not high places. Icarus would know; a mountain isn’t far to fall when you’ve fallen in love.” 

They sat for a while in silence, watching the sky toil and trouble, until, shade by shade, night fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the hiatus--school has been BANANAS lately, and also I was in Shenandoah National Park. T-2 chapters until some big league smut, so be warned.


	13. Prime Mover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Low hangs the moon, it rose late,  
It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.  
O madly the sea pushes upon the land,  
With love, with love.  
O night! Do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?  
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?”  
— Walt Whitman, “Out of the Cradle, Endlessly Rocking.”

Roxanne sat on the interview table and stared off into space. Around her, Richie wore grooves in the floor, pacing in circles, spitting profanities under his breath. After one particularly fervent string of obscenities, Roxanne snapped upright, placing the balls of her feet on the floor and wiggling, with some difficulty, off the table. 

“Sit down,” she snapped. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sit down. Sit down? Sit down!” 

Roxanne opened her mouth, but Richie ran roughshod over her, spitting out half-formed thoughts, double-quick. 

“I was there, Roxanne. I was there, and I didn’t do SHIT! I, I, I should’ve known. I knew she was paranoid, but I didn’t know she was LYING, all right? I shouldn’t have just SAT there while she was making him think he was sick! Much less—God—I didn’t know about Carr, I SWEAR—”

Roxanne didn’t move or respond. She just followed Richie with her eyes, watching him bounce off the walls. After five minutes of listening to him ramble, she finally cut in, voice low and ringing, like a struck iron bell. 

“Yeah, but it’s not about you, is it?”

Richie was so stunned that he stopped talking, stopped moving, even stopped thinking. “I mean, when you get down to it, it’s really got nothing to do with you. You’re not the victim here, so stop feeling guilty and get ready to be fucking supportive instead of making him do emotional labor for you. I’m just telling you: you’ve got to put yourself aside. Let go of that guilt, because it’s only going to get in the way.”

“I should’ve—”

“Yeah, but you were just a child yourself, Richie! You didn’t have options. You did what you could, and you made a goddamn difference, and that’s the end of it.”

“The end of it?!?”

“Yeah, the end of it! Look, when my wife was fifteen, her grandmother died, and she was adopted by a couple of piece-of-shit evangelicals, and I’ll always regret that I didn’t tell my dad that we needed to take her in. But I don’t bring it up every goddamn day and make her reassure me while reminding her about a shit thing that happened, because that’s selfish!” She held up a hand to forestall his protest. “Don’t think I’m not sympathetic, because I am. But I’m coming down hard on you because I know that you don’t want to make any mistakes with him, because this is it for you, right?” 

Richie nodded. “The way I love him...it took more than I could imagine, even now. And hell, I mean, it feels like I’m going out of my head. I’m...sick for him.” 

“I know,” Roxanne said. “I know. Hell, being in love, ain’t nothing harder. Makes you into a junkie, strung out, chasing the high of their smile, their laughter, their attention. It makes you panic, makes you vain, makes you primitive and sick inside. Shit, man, tied up and beaten, spat out and eaten, don’t think I don’t get it. But you save that shit for the bedroom, and when it’s crunch time, you put that aside and be supportive. All right? Now, remember. Be a calming presence.”

“See, I’m not good at that! I am a...nervous person, okay? It’s hard for me to—”

“Richie, I’m going to tell you something, and I say this with the greatest affection: I don’t give a shit. Figure it out. Tighten it up. And do it on the fly. I don’t want to scare you, but this could be do or die. Oh shit—here they come. Be—”

Eddie walked into the room, followed by Michelle. Richie was shocked to see that he was walking jauntily, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled and nodded at Roxanne, who, confused, inclined her head at him in return. Eddie walked right up to Richie, and, without hesitating, grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down into a deep kiss. Richie’s eyes widened, and he was stiff and confused for a moment, but quickly decided that he didn’t have the space to be befuddled and horny at the same time. One of Eddie’s hands clasped Richie’s cheek, and Richie grabbed him by the waist and pulled him closer. Eddie pulled back, cheeks rosy, mouth swollen and slick, and stood on his tiptoes to whisper in Richie’s ear. 

“My room. Ten minutes. I want to fuck the shit out of you, Richie Tozier. I’m through waiting. Are you okay with that?”

Richie gasped, sputtered, and finally managed a “Shhyeah! No, great!” 

Eddie smiled, turned on his heel, and left. Richie waited a second, staring blankly, then chased after him. Michelle and Roxanne were left in the interview room. They stood in silence for a second, and then simultaneously burst out into shrieking peals of laughter. 

“This is why I didn’t date men,” Roxanne groaned. “‘Shhyeah! No, great!’ Motherfucking what? I can’t—”

Michelle, clutching her stomach, raised a hand to wave Roxanne off, trying to silence her before she ruptured something. From her doubled-over position, she raised two hands, placing her fingers together. 

“No, I saw,” Roxanne giggled. “When his hands almost reach around your waist, you know the dick’s going to be good.” She snickered. “Or so I’m told. All I know is that from now on, every time you offer me sex, I will always respond with ‘Shhyeah! No, great!’” 

“Not if you ever want me to offer you sex again, you won’t.”

“Oh, sure. Nice bluff. We both know you’ll get horny and give in long before I will.” 

Michelle gave her the finger, but she didn’t deny it. They stood together for a moment more, still giggling softly. 

“I didn’t want to bring this up—and thank God I didn’t—but there’s something else. I thought Eddie’s might have been institutionalized, because of some of his regimented behavior, and it turns out I was right. His mother checked him into a residential psych facility in Boston right after his seventeenth birthday.”

“For what?”

“Nothing, probably. He gave me a release to look into his medical records, but there’s no diagnosis anywhere that I can find. Certainly nothing to justify these kinds of treatments. I’ve never once ordered ECT, or Clozaril, much less for the same patient, much less for a patient with no diagnosis. I wanna talk to this guy, Chelle. And before you say it, yes, I know it has nothing to do with the case at hand—”

“Let’s get on the road,” Michelle signed.

“I thought Jack told you to keep me on task,” Roxanne said, reaching for her go bag. 

“Jack should’ve sent more men,” Michelle replied.


	14. Touch Me Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is like 96% smut with feelings written by a dyke joint MFA/MA student in the Midwest. Just so you know what you're getting yourself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It frightened him to think what must have gone into the making of her eyes.”
> 
> -Edith Wharton, “The Age of Innocence.”

Richie ran into Roxanne upstairs. She was leaving her room, holding her fat brown leather shoulder-bag. 

“You’re leaving?” he asked. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. 

“Oh, okay, great. Look, can I take your little bottles of lotion if you’re not going to use them?”

“You know what, I’m gonna not give that to you. I have—hold on—here. Take this.” She pulled a half-used tube of lube out of her bag. “Top-shelf. It’s warming.”

“Oh, that’s okay—”

“No, it’s not. I’m a medical professional. It ain’t like in porn, where you ain’t never had sex with a man and you’re using unscented lotion, and you don’t use no fingers first. That’s how you get fuckin’ stuck. Use the lube.”

Richie nodded. Roxanne looked at her watch. “You’ve got two minutes,” she said.

“Is it clingy if I show up 90 seconds early?” 

“I don’t know, man. Here. Take 60 seconds and wash your dick.”

“Well, if he smells soap on my dick, is he gonna think that my dick was dirty?”

“And you think that’s worse than stank dick?” 

“Oh my God, thirty seconds. What do I do?”

Roxanne looked up and made a snap decision. 

“Okay, look. Five inches in, up, and do the left.” She held up two fingers and crooked them. “You’re gonna want as wide an angle between your backs as possible. If you’re going doggy, you want to lean back as far as possible, get his forehead on the bed. If you’re doing missionary, you want to be on your knees with him lying as flat as possible, with his legs around your waist or on your shoulders to get the best angle.”

“Wait, hold on. I—”

“Dammit. You’re 45 seconds late. Look, Richie, I can’t go in there with you and give you pointers. All I can tell you is to communicate, be confident, and do everything from a place of love and respect. Sixty seconds. Get in there, tiger!” She hustled down the hallway and out the door. 

“Jesus,” Richie gasped. He looked to the left, then to the right, and ran into Eddie’s room, clutching the tube of KY in one sweaty hand. 

Eddie was lying on the bed, fully clothed. He even had his shoes on. He lifted his head, cheeks pink, as Richie entered. 

“I thought you might not come,” he confessed.

“Of course I came,” Richie whispered. “I’ll always come when you call me.” He meant for it to be sultry, but it came out achingly earnest. Of course, Eddie had always been able to see through his artifice. “Eddie.”

“Yeah?” Eddie got up and crossed over to where Richie was standing. 

“It was you, you know. It’s always been you.” 

Eddie smiled gently and rose up onto his tiptoes to kiss Richie. It was soft and gentle, and Richie grabbed him, gathering Eddie up into his arms. Eddie climbed Richie like a tree, wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck, pressing their bodies together from knee to chest. When they finally had to break apart to breathe, Eddie barely gave him an inch of space, keeping their noses pressed together, lips brushing, breathing each other’s air. Richie reached up to take hold of Eddie’s chin, tilting it up so that Eddie was looking him in the eyes. 

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace,” Richie whispered, watching Eddie’s pupils dilate and his eyes soften, before pressing a gentle kiss to those soft pink lips. “I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.” He kissed his neck, feeling Eddie’s pulse thundering under his lips. “I love thee freely, as men strive for right.” Richie dipped Eddie, sucking a kiss on his collarbone. “I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.” The left wrist. “I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs, and with childhood’s faith.” The right wrist. “I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints.” The left palm. “I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” 

“God,” Eddie whimpered. Richie was surprised to see tears in his eyes. “I already said I’d fuck you, man, you don’t have to sell me on it. Just…please. I need you.” 

Richie picked him up and placed him on the bed. He pulled one foot onto his lap, undoing the laces of his tennis shoe.

“Rich, forget the shoes!” Eddie was fumbling with his belt with shaking hands. “Just—”

“I wanna see you,” Richie said. “All of you.” 

“I’ll send you feet pictures later,” Eddie hissed, shoving his pants down to his knees. “I want you now, Richie.”

“Hey, don’t—”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, Richie,” Eddie said. “It doesn’t have to be perfect because this isn’t the last time we’re going to do this.” 

Richie hadn’t been aware that he’d been assuming this was his only chance until Eddie said it out loud. His heart sang with gratitude and exaltation, but his mind wasn’t changed. He took Eddie’s hands in his and leaned forward to give him a soft, chaste kiss before pulling away.

“No,” he said. “It won’t be our last time. But it’ll be our first. And I want to do it right.”

Richie could see that Eddie was impatient, but he didn’t protest as Eddie removed his shoes and socks before reaching up to undo his belt. Richie pulled down Eddie’s slacks, revealing inch after inch of tanned, smooth skin overlaying toned, well-defined muscles. His shirt was next. Richie lost his breath at the sight of Eddie’s waist, pretty and slender as a girl’s, and the sinuous arch of his back. Finally, Richie slid his fingers into the waistband of Eddie’s boxer briefs and pulled them off, throwing them in the vicinity of the television. His cock was just as gorgeous as Richie remembered, but Richie was distracted by the plush curve of Eddie’s ass. Perfectly taut and rounded and eminently fuckable, Richie couldn’t stop himself from running his hands over the warm skin of Eddie’s cheeks, wondering about what it would feel like to bury his fingers between them. Or his tongue. 

Or my cock, Richie thought, and shivered with a mix of nerves and desire. To watch his cock disappear and reappear between the globes of Eddie’s fantastic ass was beyond anything he could’ve dared to hope for. 

They kissed a little more, Richie’s hands firmly clapped onto Eddie’s ass. His fingers were clutching the front of Richie’s shirt, pulling him close. When Richie pulled back, he could see that Eddie was flushed a dusky rose from his cheeks to his clavicles. Eddie leaned in from where he was cradled sweetly in Richie’s arms to whisper breathily in his ear. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” he breathed. 

Richie undid his shirt and pants fast, almost tripping as he tried to kick them off. Eddie dragged him onto the bed, climbing on top of him and shoving his boxers down and taking hold of his cock. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Richie,” Eddie said, interrupting himself with a hungry kiss. “I used to keep a bottle of lotion in my nightstand, slip two fingers inside my tight little hole, thinking of you, saying your name—” 

“God, who the hell are you?” Richie whimpered. “I don’t remember you being like this!” 

“I’m so done with it, Richie. I’m so fucking done with pretending and lying and—and being whoever, they want me to be. I knew what I wanted, but I thought it was wrong, and now I just don’t give a shit. I can’t go back. I can’t go back to faking it. I know what I want. Richie.”

“Yeah?” Richie asked, a little starstruck.

“I love you,” he said. He picked up the lube and smirked. “I thought you weren’t fuckin’ guys, Tozier.”

“I borrowed it,” Richie said. “Forget it. I love you more, Eddie. The curves of your lips rewrite history.”

“Oscar Wilde,” Eddie said, a bent to kiss Richie softly. “You’re full of surprises, Richie Tozier. Hold out your hand.” 

Richie held out his hand, and Eddie poured some of the lube into his palm. It was slick and tingled in his palm. 

“Ooh,” Richie said. “This is the good stuff.” 

“Shut up and put your finger in me,” Eddie said. 

Richie circled Eddie’s hole with his finger, spreading the lube around, before dipping a finger inside him. The moment he slipped his finger in up to the first joint, Eddie clenched down around him. The feeling of Eddie’s slick insides pulsating around him was indescribable. He almost came on the spot imagining his cock buried in that tight heat. He wiggled his finger around, as if introducing himself to Eddie’s interior muscles. After a few moments, he was thrusting his finger in and out, and Eddie was using his hips to fuck him back. Richie added another finger and began to stretch Eddie in earnest. He remembered Roxanne’s advice—five inches, up, and to the left. He found something—a firm little nodule, something—and rubbed it. 

“Oh!” Eddie gasped, throwing his head back. “Richie, don’t stop—” 

Richie added another finger, rubbing relentlessly at that little spot with all three fingertips, using his free arm to hold Eddie close. Eddie was on his knees, straddling Richie’s lap, leaning back, draped over Richie’s forearm. His collarbones were popped out, dotted with sweat. Richie leaned forwards to kiss the rivulets away. His eyes were closed, pink mouth open and groaning. 

“You’re so sweet,” Richie purred. “C’mere. Let me kiss that pretty mouth.” He could tell that Eddie was coming undone by how desperately he pitched forwards to press his mouth to Richie’s, letting Richie devour him, sucking on his tongue and licking into his mouth. 

“Oh, Richie,” he moaned, and Richie’s stomach clenched at how wrecked—and how heartfelt—Eddie’s voice was. “Richie, I’m ready, please, I need you, Richie—”

“You’ll take another,” Richie said darkly, slipping his pinky finger into Eddie, spearing him on four fingers. 

“No, please, Richie—please, Richie, fuck me, please—” 

Richie contemplated teasing him a little more, withdrawing his fingers, maybe using his mouth, but stopped cold when he saw a tear slip down Eddie’s cheek. 

“Eds,” he whispered. “Eds, are you all right?” 

Eddie sniffed. 

“I’m fine. I’ve just…waited so long. And I love you so much, and you’re being so sweet and kind, and this feels so fucking good, I just…”

“It’s okay,” Richie shushed, sitting up to kiss the tears away. “I know. I know. It’s all right. You’re ready.”

Eddie laughed, blinking his tears away. 

“You’re goddamn right. I’ve been ready.” 

Richie pulled his fingers out and dove into the nightstand for a condom before Eddie stopped him. 

“I told you last time, Rich, I trust you. I want to feel you. I mean, I want you to come in me.”

Eddie’s face was crimson, but his voice didn’t tremble at all.

“Are you serious? You, Eddie Kaspbrak, want me to come in you without a condom?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, biting his lower lip, his face the picture of devilish innocence. “I want you to fill me up, Rich.”

Richie didn’t respond, but Eddie could feel his entire body shudder, and he held him close, hiding a grin in Richie’s bare shoulder. “You know, when we ditch this joint, maybe you buy a plug to put in me after you fuck me raw and fill me up, so that the next morning, when I get up and run errands, go to the grocery store so that I can cook you dinner, pick up your shirts from the dry cleaners, walk around town with your come inside me, so that I never forget who I belong to—” 

Eddie felt the head of Richie’s cock pressing against his hole, heard Richie’s ragged breathing, and could imagine the shock-arousal-confusion-desire flickering across his face, and grinned in satisfaction. 

“You want that?” Richie asked quietly. 

“Hell yes,” Eddie said. He tilted Richie’s face up and pecked his nose. “Fuck me, I sure as fuck do.”

“Oh, sweet little Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie said, recovering enough to adopt a shit-eating grin. “If only Mrs. K could see you now.” 

“Fuck her sideways with a telephone pole,” Eddie snapped. “This isn’t about her. This is about us.” 

“Us,” Richie mused as he pressed in. “I like the sound of that.”

The head was barely in before Richie paused, because Eddie was obviously feeling it, and as badly as Richie wanted to feel his tight ass bouncing on his cock, he didn’t want to hurt him. He applied more lube, and Eddie slid down another few inches, hovering just two inches away from sliding home. 

“Richie,” Eddie said, not impatient or frustrated, just firm and fond. “I’m ready.” 

Richie released the grip he had on Eddie, allowing him to take in the last couple of inches. The apples of his ass slapped against Richie’s thighs, and he whimpered.

“Does it hurt?” Richie asked. “Are you all right?”

“It’s…intense,” Eddie confessed. “It feels really fucking good. Holy shit, Richie, your cock—oh—”  
A little flattered by Eddie’s reaction, Richie withdrew maybe an inch and pushed back in. Eddie gasped, head rolled back, and his chest heaved. His hands crept up to Richie’s chest, petting him gently, cupping his face. 

“How do I feel?” Eddie whispered. For a moment, Richie couldn’t answer. He wasn’t moving yet, but the clench and release of Eddie’s inner muscles on Richie’s cock was almost too much to bear. 

“You’re so tight,” he finally murmured. “You’re so hot and tight, and you’re beautiful, Eds, you’re so fucking pretty, And I, I love you, Eddie, I love you—” 

Richie clenched his eyes shut, desperately trying to keep the tears in his eyes from falling, because nothing could be more embarrassing than crying during sex, never mind the only sex he’d ever wanted to have, never mind sex with Eddie, but it was too late. He could feel a tear slide down his cheek, quickly followed by another, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. 

“Hey,” Eddie whispered gently. With steady hands, he removed Richie’s glasses and placed them beside Richie. The large, flesh-colored blur in front of him leaned in close. He was close enough that he couldn’t have leaned so far in without poking himself in the eyes with the frame of Richie’s glasses, but Richie still hated that he couldn’t see him. Eddie’s two hands, smaller than Richie’s and soft as cashmere, cupped his cheeks. A soft kiss on his face forced a quick breath out of him. The kiss was followed by another as Eddie leaned in close and began kissing away his tears, just like Richie had done for him.

“I’m sorry,” Richie groaned. “This must be really sexy. I’m pathetic.”

“Hey,” Eddie cooed. “It’s all right. I cried too, dipshit. I know what you’re feeling, because I’m feeling it, too. Here.” He placed Richie’s glasses back on his face, and holy shit, because Eddie was right there, in his face, on his cock, and he was so achingly gorgeous that Richie felt that he could just die. Eddie’s sweet pink mouth, soft brown eyes, upturned nose, and lovely high cheekbones were seared into his memory in that moment. “I hope that what you’re feeling heals you, Rich, because I never plan on leaving you again. You’re my Trashmouth, Richie. I love you. Now, are you going to fuck me, or do I have to do all the hard work myself?” 

Richie grinned, and lunged forwards to claim Eddie’s mouth. He flipped them over so that Eddie’s back was on the bed and picked up one of his legs and placed it on his shoulder. He withdrew a few inches, and then pressed back in slowly. 

“Faster,” Eddie moaned. 

“You’re so fucking demanding,” Richie scolded. “I’m an old man. I got a bad back.” 

“We’re the same age, jackass,” Eddie snapped. “Fuck. Me.” 

Richie grinned, pulled back until just the head of his dick was inside Eddie, and then shoved back in until his balls were pressed against the plush swell of Eddie’s ass. Eddie wailed. “Keep going.” His hands reached up to clutch Richie’s hips, holding him close. “Go, go, go!” 

Richie had slept with four different women, and he had never felt anything like the clutch of Eddie around him. He was wet and hot, scorching hot, and his hole was opening and closing around his cock, trying to pull him in deeper. The thrill of being inside that tight, beautiful little body was popping along his nerve endings. His excitement was only heightened by the abiding love and respect he felt for his Eddie, Eds, Spaghetti. Eddie’s head was tossed back, whipping back and forth, mouth open and moaning. Richie bent forwards, kissing Eddie’s neck, before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

“How do I feel, Eddie?” 

“You f-feel—oh God, Rich—you’re so big—please—oh, I love you, I love you—you’re just fucking me open, holding me down, like you own me—I love you so fucking much—please—oh, Richie…” 

“My Eds,” Richie whispered fondly, cupping Eddie’s cheek. 

Eddie surprised them both when he came, pushed over the edge by a particularly well-aimed and fervent thrust and Richie’s softly whispered endearment. The clench and release of Eddie’s hole pushed Richie right to the edge, as did Eddie’s sweet nothings. 

“Are you sure, sugar?” Richie gasped. He stilled his thrusts, but the tightness of Eddie’s ass kept him struggling to stay on the edge. “I can pull out, Spaghetti—” 

“No,” Eddie said. “No, no, no, in me, Richie, Richie, please, in me—” 

Richie never, never, never would’ve thought that sweet little Edward B. Kaspbrak would’ve been such a filthy little sex demon, but then again, Eddie had never not been surprising him. From his Eds, Richie expected the unexpected. From kissing his cheek on the bridge, to joining him in the sewers, to pressing their bleeding palms together, allowing Richie’s blood to enter his veins, Eddie had never fit in any of the little boxes everyone else had tried to fit him in. Everyone had underestimated him, everyone had been shocked by him over and over, but Richie knew. Richie knew his Eds. 

“Oh, Eddie, Eddie, mine—” 

Eddie laughed and tossed his head back, revealing the tempting column of his throat. 

“Yes, yours, yours—” 

With that breathy response, Richie couldn’t take anymore. He came deep inside Eddie, holding him tight, fingers digging into his waist, as Eddie ground back into him, keeping as close as possible. 

“Oh, honey,” Richie gasped. “Sweetheart.” 

Eddie just smiled blissfully, reaching up to take Richie’s hand in his and entwining their fingers. Richie pulled out with a grunt and laid down on the pillow next to Eddie, pulling him into his arms. They laid together for a few moments, eyes closed, breathing heavily. “Holy shit,” Richie said. 

Eddie chuckled. “You came inside me so deep it’s still in there, Rich.”

Richie groaned. “You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me, Eds?”

Eddie kissed his neck. “I was going to say that I wanna fuck you next time, but I don’t know if I could give that up. That was unbelievable. You were unbelievable. Don’t let it go to your head, though.” 

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” Richie admitted. “I mean, I’m sure you already knew that, but still. I should say it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” Eddie said. “Not that I’ve got a huge frame of reference, but. You know. Wow. I always thought having sex with a man for the first time would feel like a defeat, but I’ve never felt better.” He looked up at Richie through his lashes, and Richie’s heart skipped a beat. “Because it’s not some random jagoff fucking my ass, it’s my best friend. I trust you. I’ve always trusted you, even when I didn’t trust myself.” 

Richie petted his hair and kissed his temple, and before he even had a chance to tuck them in, Eddie was asleep. Centimeter by centimeter, Richie extricated himself so he could clean himself up. As he reentered the room from the bathroom, he saw Eddie’s small form curled up on top of the covers, snoring softly, and he felt like bursting into tears. The idea that he could’ve been cradling, holding, fucking, and falling asleep and waking up next to that body for damn near a quarter century was almost too much to bear. But then Eddie reached out, murmuring in his sleep, and he rushed to tuck him in and fold him back into his arms. 

“I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame,” Richie said quietly. The quote was from The Age of Innocence, one of his Book Club reads with Eddie back in high school, and he still remembered how achingly he’d hoped that Eddie would understand that Wharton’s words were meant for him. “But then you come; and you're so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting it to come true.” 

Eddie was still snoring softly, lips gently brushing Richie’s throat.

“It has, Eds,” Richie whispered. “I am never, ever, ever going to leave you, Eddie, not until you wise up and tell me to get lost and land some young guy with a big dick and a bigger bank account, and even then I’ll still love you.”

“Rich,” Eddie said.

Richie stiffened, mortified. “Huh?”

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep,” Eddie mumbled, and, cranky as his tone was, Richie could feel the shape of a smile against his collarbone as he turned out the lamp on the bedside table, gathered Eddie close, and closed his eyes.


	15. A Serious House on Serious Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A serious house on serious earth it is,  
In whose blent air all compulsions meet,  
Are recognized and robed as destinies.   
And that much can never be obsolete.”   
—Phillip Larkin, “Church Going.”

Roxanne was doing 90 on I-95 southbound, and Michelle was covering her eyes and waiting for death. She’d been driving around with Roxanne for thirty-two years and it never got easier. For a law enforcement official, she seemed to take speed limits as less of a rule and more of a challenge. Michelle had once told her that she drove like she was in a video game, and Roxanne hadn’t fucking denied it. Terrified as she was, she couldn’t help but admit that her insanity had gotten them from rural Maine to just outside Boston in under four hours. The GPS spoke up, telling Roxanne to take exit 46 in 500 feet, as she was doing 90 in the far left-hand lane in traffic.   
“Fuck me,” she swore, viciously cutting off a woman in a dark Acura and veering across four lanes to make it to the off ramp. Michelle grabbed the handle above the door, clenching her jaw. 

In a thirty-four year relationship, almost everything ends up reminding you of a time you’ve had sex. It’s inevitable. Michelle couldn’t listen to Blue Öyster Cult, watch Hell’s Kitchen, or lay hands on those little handles above the car door without getting excited. A smile crossed her face as she remembered being stranded at the top of the Cascades, in a car without gas, at seventeen, with Roxanne’s fingers tucked so far into her cunt that she felt like they might pop out the top of her head. Then she imagined being locked up over it, and her smile faded. 

Their good lube, the kind that smelled like vanilla, rosemary, and orange blossom was gone, and had been replaced with a generic bottle of Astroglide. Michelle was no dummy—the moment she’d seen that little bottle in the bag, she’d chuckled and shaken her head. All she could hope was that those two closet-cases were putting it to good use. She certainly hoped that she was going to get lucky over the course of their little excursion. It was the first time Roxanne had been out of her work clothes since Seattle, and the low, square neck of Roxanne’s white blouse and the way her blue pencil skirt clung to her ass and cinched around her waist made her miss the skin her wife showed when not on the job. Michelle was still wearing the gray, pin-striped chinos she’d been wearing in Derry, but she’d shed her button-down, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the tightness of the tank top she wore as an undershirt wasn’t lost on Roxanne either. 

They pulled into the parking lot and Roxanne chunked the parking brake into place. It was seven in evening, and dusk was beginning to fall. As Michelle helped Roxanne out of the car, they caught sight of a young man in jeans and a tee shirt waving at them. Roxanne approached him, cane clunking on the asphalt. 

“Hey,” he said. He had a thick New York accent. “You work here?”

“No,” she said. “We’re uninvited guests.”

“Me too,” he said. “You know what goes on in there?”

“I got my suspicions.” Roxanne’s working-class accent crept out whenever she got comfortable. Michelle absolutely adored it. 

“Hey, me too! I’m a reporter, hopin’ to get some photos, something like that. You wanna help me out?” 

“Hell, why not. I was gonna do this myself but seems like you might be a bit more up to the task anyways. Get in, take your pictures, and get out. Meet me at nine in the morning at the Fairfield. Step back, hon.”

Roxanne approached the service entrance the young man had been staking out. She opened her bag and pulled out a hairpin and a scalpel. 

“Hey, what’re you—” 

Roxanne slipped one end of the bobby pin into the lock, followed by the sharp end of the scalpel. She rotated the bobby pin with scientific precision, listening to it click, until she twisted it with violent jerk of her wrist. The lock gave, and the door swung open. 

“There. Don’t go in now. Wait until midnight.” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks. I’m Nat, by the way.” 

“Less I know, the better. If you don’t get caught, come see us at the Fairfield. Room 327.” 

***  
It wasn’t five minutes before Roxanne had turned the walls of their hotel into an evidence board. She’d plastered the walls with maps, which were covered with red lines marking the sewer system. All the lines converged at the Well House, which Roxanne had circled flamboyantly. 

“This is what we know,” she mused. 

Michelle giggled, covering her mouth with a hand, because that was a Classic Roxanne Saying, right up there with “yes, no, maybe so” and “forever and a day.” The mouth-covering habit was one of the many holdovers from before she’d lost her voice. She’d been injured in the car accident that had killed her grandmother. She could speak, but not much, and it was very painful, and she seldom did. It was easier to let Roxanne be her voice. 

“You know how in Star Wars, you never get any subtitles for what Chewbacca is saying, but you get the idea because of how Han responds to him? That’s kind of how we work,” Roxanne had once told her colleague Will. Michelle had smacked her, but it was true. 

While Michelle was sitting on the bed and taking her shoes off, Roxanne pulled out her phone and started dialing. She never went into an interview—official or not—without doing her homework. “You always need something to hold over them,” she’d said. “You have to know something that they don’t know you know. An ace up your sleeve.”

“Louise,” Roxanne said. “It’s Dr. Little, from Hopkins—yeah, I’m at the U. W. now, I like it a lot—sure, sure. How’s D.C? Look, I’m calling to ask if you know a Dr. Harvey Lyndstrom.” 

Roxanne turned to face Michelle, listening intently. 

“No kidding. Yeah, Boston. I got a patient—uh huh. I got a patient, says some bad shit went down. If kids are getting hurt at this place, you know, I mean, I’m with the board, so—sure. Okay.”

She started jotting something down on the notepad provided by the hotel. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Makes sense. Okay. But how—uh huh. Thanks, Lou.”

She hung up the phone. 

“Okay. So, it’s not a hospital, and it’s sure as hell not a fuckin’ school. It’s a vanity chop shop for parents who wanna scrape the gay outta their kids. There ain’t no complaints because if the cops bust in, the parents are on the hook too, so nobody opens their mouths. S’like the mafia. Nobody knows nothin’.”

“Someone knows something,” Michelle signed. 

“Yeah. Well, I ain’t bringin’ this place up to Eddie till he mentions it to me first. You can’t force shit like that, Chelle.” 

“There’ll be others,” Michelle said. “Make a crack, and the trickle turns to a flood.”

Roxanne flopped back on the bed, hands over her eyes. 

“God. Dunno why I’m here, Chelle.”

“Probably because after a getting spun a crazy yarn about a killer clown and having Mister Goddamn White appear in front of us, some run-of-the-mill child abuse sounded pretty goddamn simple.”

“Yeah. I guess so. I mean, kill the demon clown, shut down the conversion camp, whatever shall I do first?”

“Well, don’t think too hard about it. We both know you’ll end up doing both.”

“I’ve never killed a fuckin’ monster before. I don’t know. I might not be able to sort this one out. Hell, I couldn’t even sort the last one out, and that—that wasn’t no fuckin’ demon, that was a fuckin’ chemistry teacher, Chelle, a terminally ill high school chemistry teacher—” 

“Oh, shut up.” There wasn’t any venom in Chelle’s expression, just a tender and abiding sadness. “That’s what it wanted you to think.”

Roxanne opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, someone was pounding on the door. She looked up, confused. “It definitely hasn’t been four hours yet. Who—”

It was Nat. “I need to talk to you,” he said, before she could ask him what he was doing there. He held up a flash drive.

“Did you come straight here? It’s only six thirty! I told you not to—”

“You need to see this,” he interrupted, pushing in and plugging the flash drive into the hotel TV. 

“You ain’t heard of e-mail? You know, I gotta girl in my room, I might be tryin’ ta get laid, ya know—” 

“You work for the medical board, right?” 

“No, I’m a consultant for the FBI. I’m a member of the medical board in Washington State, but I have a working relationship with the psychiatrists on the other state boards. I don’t have any real authority here. My plan is to lie my way in, gather some evidence, and bring it to the people who can do something about it.” 

“But you can shut him down?” Nat pressed.

Roxanne sighed. 

“I’m well-respected in my field. When I talk, people listen.” 

“Okay. Look. The first thing I noticed when I got in was that the doors run on a master lock system from the outside. The doors lock at five thirty, and after that, no one gets in, and no one gets out until about seven in the morning.” The image showed a menacing electronic lock on the heavy steel door to a dormitory. “Everything takes place on site. I found an ECT unit in the basement. Lyndstrom is the only medical doctor on site, which means he orders everything. They even have a pharmacy.”

“Which means there’s no accountability.”

“None. Everything is regimented. I found this list of rules on the cafeteria wall.” 

1\. FOLLOW ALL STAFF INSTRUCTIONS AT ALL TIMES  
2\. PHONE CALLS ARE LIMITED TO THREE MINUTES  
3\. ALL LETTERS MUST BE APPROVED BY DR. LYNDSTROM BEFORE BEING POSTED  
4\. STAFF MEMBERS ARE APPROVED TO AUTHORIZE CHEMICAL AND PHYSICAL RESTRAINTS FOR ANY REASON  
5\. INAPPROPRIATE CONTACT WITH SAME-SEX PATIENTS, POSESSION OF FORBIDDEN MATERIAL, OR INSUBORDINATION WILL RESULT IN A FULL PSYCHOLOGICAL REVIEW AND TREATMENT PLAN EVALUATION

“That’s not right,” Nat said. “Is it?”

“No,” Roxanne said. “No, it’s not. All right, look. E-mail this to me, but you should keep the flash drive in case I hit a wall. My cover story will be that I’ve received a research grant to conduct a metanalysis of treatment techniques for adolescents deemed to be at risk of receiving an antisocial personality diagnosis. I gotta be out of here in twenty-four hours, though. I can get the ball rolling, but you’re gonna have to see this through—at least, until I clear this latest case.”

“You were tipped off by someone, weren’t you? Will they go on the record?”

“Not now,” Roxanne warned. “Too many moving pieces already. I ain’t taking him anywhere near no reporter.”

“Fair enough,” Nat said. “Have him give me a call—”

“No.” Roxanne yanked the flash drive out of the TV. “Thanks for your help. Keep in touch.” 

“Are you pushing me out?” 

“Yes,” Roxanne said. “Move it.” 

***

Dr. Harvey Lyndstrom kept Roxanne and Michelle waiting for almost an hour. Michelle was bouncing her leg, fingers nervously alternating between beating a tattoo on the plastic chair and twisting her earrings. They were an anniversary present from Roxanne: handmade from sterling silver, beaded with diamonds like tiny stars. Roxanne’s pair, for the same anniversary, bought from the same Connecticut Avenue jewelry shop, were moonstones and diamond set in gold. Roxanne’s father liked to joke that their wedding rings had been bought from a Belltown pawn shop, and they’d been trying to make up for it ever since. 

“Miss Little? Doctor Lyndstrom is ready for you.” 

“Miss Little,” Michelle tutted. Roxanne rolled her eyes. She’d dressed up a bit, wearing a brown wool jacket and skirt over a green blouse. 

“Doctor Little,” Lyndstrom, said, getting up from his desk to shake Roxanne’s hand. He was old, maybe sixty-five, with white hair and a toothbrush mustache. He was wearing a white lab coat over a wrinkled button-down and a navy-blue tie. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I read your most recent article on de-medicalizing Munchausen by proxy. Very interesting. It seems quite unorthodox to suggest that ficticious disorders have no compulsive component.”

“Well, I hope I made it clear that the act of inflicting a disease on a child or spouse is indicative of maladjustment in and of itself, but I contend that the act of medical abuse is more of an impulse unresisted than an irresistible impulse. A psychopath, for example, understands what they’re doing is wrong. They just don’t care. According to my research, Munchausen by proxy perpetrators have a psychopathology that more closely mirrors that of the psychopath than someone with compulsions or fixations.” 

“Hmm,” Lyndstrom said. “Well, I’m sure you know more about it than I do.”

“Perhaps. What is your specialization?” 

“I treat maladjustment in adolescents.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. I received a grant from the APA to study early intervention for children with conduct disorders likely to receive a diagnosis of an antisocial personality disorder at eighteen. Nothing so far has proved effective, so I’m traveling to several institutions to see if other administrators have any new approaches.” 

When Roxanne was bullshitting, she had a terrible habit of looking over at Michelle, as if they were sharing a private joke. It was endearing, of course, and Michelle found it quite flattering, but it hadn’t taken their kids long to figure it out. Luckily, Dr. Lyndstrom wasn’t wise to Roxanne’s idiosyncrasies yet. A wiser man might’ve realized that a psychiatrist with over a hundred journal publications, a dozen books authored, four board certifications, and a doctorate wouldn’t usually find herself in a unheard-of vanity clinic, and that the Park School had no reputation for treating the kinds of severe diagnoses she was referencing, but Lyndstrom took the bait hook, line, and sinker. He wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was smart enough to get away with his behavior for almost thirty years. But one thing Roxanne had learned very early on was to never underestimate the fallibility of the egomaniac. Lyndstrom had his own personal fiefdom in the Park School, and far be it from him to recognize a challenge to his authority. 

“Do you have an empty room you could show us?” Roxanne asked. 

“Certainly. Right this way.” 

The place looked small from the outside, but the building extended quite far back. The lot was big, and the school had cannibalized the grounds outside to provide more accommodations for patients over the years. Lyndstrom took them down a long corridor and opened a heavy metal door with a swipe of a card. 

“Feel free to look around. I have a thirty minute appointment coming up, so unfortunately I have to leave for a moment, but I will be back shortly. Let a nurse know if you have any questions.” 

He let the door go, and it almost slammed shut on Roxanne’s fingers. Michelle caught it, and heaved it open once more. It was heavy, almost two inches thick, with thick cylindrical bars that were designed to slide into slots in the jamb, locking the door from the outside. They entered quietly. 

The room had a stack of books on a shelf above a cheap particle-board desk. It was an Encyclopedia Britannica set, all meticulously dusted and put away in alphabetical order. Michelle opened the dresser, and saw rows of screamingly white shirts, all folded with military precision and lined up in rows. 

“Everything’s so neat,” she signed to Roxanne, who was rummaging through the wastepaper basket. 

“One neat aspect,” Roxanne replied. “The lives of severely mentally ill people are full of chaos. It’s standard practice in institutions to teach them to exercise control over their surroundings.”

“Yeah? What do you think?”

“I think the world is a chaotic place. You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to set it to rights. The semblance of order in one’s life is a social fiction that some mentally ill people won’t respect. We treat them like this for us, not for them.” Roxanne sighed, tossing an empty Similac bottle back into the trash. “I can count on one hand the number of schizophrenic or psychotic patients I’ve had who say antipsychotics improve their quality of life. We expect them to put up with the side effects because the fact that their reality differs from ours makes us uncomfortable. If you can teach somebody ways to recognize hallucinations when they come, to differentiate them from reality, or to identify irrational thoughts and work on coping skills…I mean, hell. I know what’s wrong with you. I wouldn’t change it. I know what’s wrong with me. I wouldn’t change that. I believe that the way schizophrenic people interact with the world is special, and probably necessary, and it’s definitely something we don’t know enough about. Because of my autism, I see things other people can’t. I think psychotic disorders are the same.” Roxanne’s shoulders, which had been up by her ears, relaxed centimeter by centimeter as Michelle placed a hand on her back. “Of course, there’s no evidence that any of these kids are severely mentally ill. It’s probably a method of control.”

Michelle nodded. “This feels Foucauldian to me. You know, you have a circular room with twelve cells, and in the middle there’s a guard tower. The guard can see into all twelve cells simultaneously, but they can’t see him. In the end, he doesn’t even have to be there. The enemy is within the gates. The guard is in your own head.”

“You’re probably right—hey. I think someone’s next door. Hello—can you hear me?”

There was no answer. Michelle thought of the panopticon, of never knowing when you were being watched, and felt a little ill. Roxanne knelt on the bed, ear to the wall. “It’s okay. You can trust me.”

No reply.   
Roxanne sat back on the bed, pondering. Then she began to sing. Her voice was a silvery alto, rough at times, and flawlessly smooth at others, ringing like a silver bell or clashing like swords. The song was an old port song, picked up on the freight docks by Puget Sound when they were little more than children. 

“As I rode ashore from my schooner close by  
A girl on the beach, sir, I chanced to espy,  
Her hair it was red, and her bonnet was blue  
Her place of abode was in Harbour Lecou.  
Oh, boldly I asked her to walk on the sand,  
She smiled like an angel and held out her hand  
So I buttoned me guernsey and hoved way me chew  
In the dark rolling waters of Harbour Lecou.” 

Michelle heard rustling in the next room, like someone had scrambled up on the bed to listen.

“My ship she lay anchored far out on the tide  
As I strolled along with that maid at my side  
I told her I loved her, I said I'll be true,  
And I winked at the moon over Harbour Lecou  
As we walked on the sands at the close of the day  
I thought of my wife who was home in Torbay.  
I knew that she'd kill me if she only knew  
I was courting this lassie in Harbour Lecou.”

Roxanne’s eyes were closed, her face was serene, and Michelle found herself overcome with a surge of affection so strong she could feel it clawing at her throat. She remembered a young Roxanne singing to her from the Ravenna Overpass while she stood below, or from below her bedroom window. She remembered how she had sung to their kids when they were young. She remembered one particular day, when Marian had had a particularly disastrous day at school, and had refused to talk to anyone, just stormed upstairs and locked her door, and Roxanne had sat outside, singing Indigo Girls songs and old hymns until Marian had finally opened the door and come down for a sandwich. 

“As we passed a log cabin that stood on the shore  
I met an old comrade I'd sailed with before,  
He treated me kindly saying ‘Jack, how are you?  
It’s seldom I see you in Harbour Lecou.’  
And as I was parting, this maiden in tow  
He broke up my party with one single blow:  
He said ‘Regards to your missus, and your wee kiddies too:  
I remember her well, she's from Harbour Lecou!’”

A little laughter rippled her voice as she delivered the last two lines, but it fit the melody nicely. Michelle could hear breathing on the other side of the wall.

“I looked at this damsel a-standing 'long side.  
Her jaw, it just dropped, and her mouth opened wide.  
And then like a she-cat upon me she flew,  
And I fled from the furies of Harbour Lecou.  
So come all you young sailors who walk on the shore,  
Beware of old comrades you sailed with before,  
Beware of the maidens with the bonnets of blue  
And the pretty young damsels of Harbour Lecou.  
And the pretty young damsels of Harbour Lecou.”

After she finished, there was a brief silence. Then a voice came.

“Hey. I like your song.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you new here? That’s Jason’s room, and he’s not here anymore.”

“No. I’m with the FBI. What’s your name?” 

“Cameron. What’s the FBI doing here?”

“Trying to get this place shut down. Why’re you in here, Cameron?”

“My parents sent me. Are you going to talk to Dr. Lyndstrom?”

“Not if you don’t want me to. I have a friend who was here a long time ago, in the nineties. He said it was a bad place then. Is it a bad place now?”

Silence. Then:

“Yeah. I was—my parents caught me. With by best friend. So they…well. They said that it’d be good for me.”

“It’s not.”

“No. I can’t think straight anymore. I have a hard time remembering. After they send me for the shock treatments, sometimes I can’t even remember my own name. Where I am. It always comes back, but it takes longer each time. I get scared, thinking maybe one day it won’t.” 

“It won’t come to that. I’ll do everything I can to stop them, but you have to help me. I saw the Director’s office. Do you know what the code is for the lock on the door? I can pick the lock to the file cabinet and steal the records I need, but I can’t get past the keypad.”

“I know the first two digits are 1-2, but I don’t know the rest. I only saw the nurse punch in the first part.”

“That’s enough. I already know his birthday’s December 16th. Never underestimate the fallibility of the egomaniac.”

“If you say so. These files—what’re they gonna do for me?”

“If they detail malpractice—and I think they will—then they’ll allow me to file a complaint with the board on behalf of my friend. If the board agrees, and I have evidence, Lyndstrom will have to be supervised, and this place’ll be shut down. He might even lose his license.”

“How long will that take?”

“I have a few things to take care of first, but I promise that I’ll move as fast as I can. Once everyone’s safe, I’ll go to the board first thing.”

“Good. You have to—wait. Someone’s coming.”

Roxanne slid off the bed and made herself preoccupied with examining the writing implements on the desk—crayons and felt tip markers.

“Ah,” Lyndstrom said. “We try to get our patients to journal every day, but we make sure they’re not allowed any implements that could be used to self-harm.”

“I see. Have you had any incidents of violence on the premises?”

“Only one, but that was back in 1997.”

Michelle furrowed her brow and tapped Roxanne’s hand.

“What happened?”

“A young man snuck onto the premises to visit a patient. He became…uncooperative when we tried to remove him. After that, we decided to substantially upgrade our security. The… encounter had a terrible influence on our patient. He became uncooperative, defiant, depressed, even suicidal. I know that institutionalization as a model has come under criticism, but that one incident convinced me of the desirability of a safe haven from all the bad influences and distractions the outside world offers.”

“I. See.” 

Roxanne’s mask was starting to slip. Michelle knew it was best to get her out of there fast. She gave her hand three staccato taps: Time to go.

“I’m afraid we have an appointment, so we’ll have to leave. I’d be interested to hear what you think after I write up my initial observations. We’ll be in touch.”

It was obvious that Lyndstrom was a little taken aback by the speed of their exit, but there was no other choice. They barely made it a block before Roxanne stopped dead in her tracks and released a hair-curling deluge of expletives and viciously kicked a recycling bin, which spilled its cardboard guts all over the alleyway. 

“Motherfucking cocksucking piece of shit CUNT ASS WHORE FUCKING ASSHOLE SHIT-DICK MOTHERFUCKER—”

She pulled back to aim a punch at the brick wall in front of her, but Michelle caught her wrist and pulled her into a bear hug. Roxanne struggled briefly, then went limp. Michelle heard a soft sob and felt her wife’s arms wrap around her. 

“Goddamn it,” she whimpered. “God DAMN it.”

All Michelle could do was nod.

Goddamn it. 

***

It was midnight when they returned to the unlocked service entrance. They slipped inside and made their way to the Director’s office, pausing only to enter the code into the door. The only sound was that of a far-off television set, probably the night nurse, or one of the orderlies.

“Keep watch,” Roxanne ordered, as she got down on her knees and started to work on the filing cabinet. “These aren’t labeled, so it could take a hot second.” She was holding the penknife in her teeth as she rotated the bobby pin. “Too far back. These are from 92-93.”

An orderly in a white uniform passed, and they knelt behind the desk until he disappeared. 

“Hurry up,” Michelle signed.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. 1997. Edwards…Hocke…Jessop…Kaspbrak, E. B. Got it. Let’s move.”

They couldn’t lock the cabinet back up without the key, so all they could do was hope that nobody would miss the file. Roxanne slid it into her bag with some difficulty, and they made it to the exit, hopped into their car, and pointed themselves towards Derry. They’d lost too much time already.


	16. Fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In the nightmare of the dark  
All the dogs of Europe bark.”  
—W. H. Auden, “In Memory of W. B. Yeats.”

Richie woke up in the middle of the night by…something. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see a thing between the darkness of the room, which was lit only by the alarm clock on his bedside table, and his near-blindness without his glasses. He still felt a little unnerved, however, which was understandable, since he was in town at the same time as a psychotic demon clown. He knew the only way to convince himself that Pennywise wasn’t lurking in the closet was to take a look around, but it was nearly four in the morning, and he didn’t want to wake Eddie up. There was no way he could extricate himself from Eddie, who was essentially asleep on his chest, without waking him up, so he decided to turn on his phone and use the light from the screen to scan the room, and, when there was nothing, he could fall back asleep. So he groped for his phone, feeling his fingers skate along the wood and bump up against his glasses, until something grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t Eddie. Eddie’s hands were still curled sweetly against his chest.

“Jesuschrist—”

The light clicked on, and Richie almost had a heart attack, because gripping his wrist was a doughy blond man, about his age, in Juniper Hill sweats, holding a gun. “Oh my God—”

Richie tried to sit up, dislodging Eddie in the process. He made an extraordinarily grumpy sound. 

“Rich, wuzzat—Jesus Christ!” 

Richie got on his hands and knees, trying to cover Eddie with his body, for all the good it would do. Though he wouldn’t have wanted to encounter Bowers under any circumstances, doing it naked was about the worst-case scenario he could’ve dreamed up. 

“Bowers, what the fuck—what d-d-do you want? I got money, you know, you can have my credit cards—” 

“I don’t want your fucking credit cards, you fucking faggot. Get the fuck up.”

Richie got out of bed, painfully aware of how helpless he was and how much he wished he wasn’t naked. More than anything, he really, really, really didn’t want to die. A couple days ago, he could’ve accepted it, but now? No way. He wanted to live. 

“Richie, don’t—” 

Eddie clung to him as he got out of the bed, like he was hoping that they would stay safe as long as they were under the covers. Richie remembered that feeling, too. When they were children, Richie would sneak out of his bedroom and run to Eddie’s house, climb the trellis, and rap on his window. Eddie would let him in, and they would whisper in his bed until they fell asleep. While they were shining flashlights under the covers, or if Richie was keeping stock-still while Eddie slept in his arms, they had felt safe. Safe from Bowers, from his mother, from the clown. But they were adults now, and Richie was pretty sure that Bowers wouldn’t hesitate to shoot them both if they got smart. 

“You too, Kaspbrak. Both of you queers, over by the wall.”

“Leave him alone, you—”

Richie never got to finish his insult, because Bowers hit him in the face with the gun and he went down. He hadn’t been in any fights since leaving Derry, and the pain came as a surprise. Somewhere, very far away, he could hear Eddie screaming. Cool hands wrapped around his face, pulling him close, shielding his head. 

“Get up, you fucking pussy. Get him up.”

They withdrew to the wall. Richie slowly came back to himself. Eddie was holding him up.

“How dare you, how fucking dare you, you white-trash motherfucking piece of shit—”

“Eds,” Richie mumbled. 

“I’ll kill you, I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you—” 

“Eds.” 

“What!?”

“No, no, ignore your little faggot friend. Keep talking.” 

Bowers got close, shoving the barrel of his gun under Eddie’s chin. Richie felt ill. He considered going for it. He would’ve if the gun was pointed at him. But the risk…no. Maybe they could still talk their way out of this. Eddie looked like he was ready to spit in Bowers’s face. It was crazy, Richie thought. This is crazy. Since when did he become the voice of reason? 

“Henry, just tell us what you want, and we’ll do it. Nobody has to get hurt.”

“Tozier. Sit down on that chair. You. Tape him down.” 

Legs shaking, Richie sat down on the wooden rocking chair. Eddie duct taped his wrists, then his ankles, to the armrests and supporting slats with shaking hands.

“What are you going to do?” Eddie asked, lips trembling. 

Bowers pressed the muzzle of his gun against Richie’s forehead. Richie screwed his eyes shut.

“Guess.”

“No! Stop it!” Eddie wailed. “Stop it, don’t hurt him! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” 

Richie opened one eye, peeking out at the scene in front of him.

“You’re sorry,” Bowers drawled. “What about him? Is he sorry? I don’t think so. But he will be. You humiliated me, Tozier. In front of my friends. ‘Go blow your dad, you mullet-wearing asshole.’ Well. We’ll see who’s laughing now.” 

He moved the gun from Richie to point it at Eddie. 

“No, no, no—” 

“Huh,” Bowers said. “I thought this little freak was just a warm hole for you to fuck. But you’re telling me that you actually care about him?”

Richie opened his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by his phone playing “Changes.” Bowers picked it up, and, putting it in front of Richie, answered it, while keeping his gun trained on Eddie. 

“Hey, Richie. It’s Roxanne. Sorry to bother you so late, but I thought you might still be up.”

“Yeah, uh, no problem. What’s up?”

“Look, we’re getting in from Boston, and I thought you might want to get a drink. I sure as hell won’t be sleeping tonight.” 

“I—I don’t think so. I’m kinda busy.”

“Ha! Gotcha!” She gave her best “squeaky bed frame” sound effect, then laughed some more. “Anyhow. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Bye, Roxanne.”

***

Ten miles away, Roxanne frowned. 

“Something’s wrong,” she said. 

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

She floored it.

***

“So listen, Tozier. Here’s what’s gonna happen. First, I’m gonna kill your faggot boyfriend. Then I’m gonna kill you. Then I’m gonna kill the rest of your friends. IT says it’s your time to float, but I won’t pretend I hadn’t already been thinking about it. Guess I just needed a little push.”

He pointed the gun at Eddie. Richie wanted to scream, do something, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t lift a hand to stop it— 

Several things happened at once, or, at least, in a very quick sequence. The door buckled, almost getting torn out of the jamb. Bowers’s shoulder exploded in a shower of blood. The massive crack of Michelle’s Colt Python ripped through the room. Richie’s head snapped towards the doorway where Michelle stood, gun up, wearing a cardigan and beige slacks, like a French teacher from Hell. She raced towards Bowers, kicking him away from Eddie and rolling him over. He groaned. Roxanne followed, holstering her Beretta. She kicked Bowers’s gun away towards Richie. Michelle helped Eddie up onto the bed, urging him away from Bowers. Roxanne ran to Richie, pulling a knife from her bag and cutting the tape. As soon as Richie was free, he ripped the tape from his mouth and went for Bowers’ gun.

“Richie, what are you doing?” Roxanne asked slowly.

“I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Rich—” 

“NO!” Richie yelled. He pointed the gun at Bowers’s head, hands shaking. “You saw what he was going to do to Eddie. I cannot allow that. Okay?”

“I’m not going to let you kill him,” Roxanne said softly. 

“Oh really, Roxanne? And what exactly are you going to do to stop me?”

It wasn’t exactly a threat, but it was pretty close. Roxanne didn’t react. She just unholstered her gun, and Richie wondered for a moment if she was going to shoot him. 

“Not a goddamn thing,” she said. “Because I’m going to do it for you.” She pointed her weapon at Bowers and clicked the safety off. 

They stood there for a moment, frozen in time. Eddie’s eyes were wide, hands clapped to his mouth. Finally, Richie slumped, dropping the gun. The rage was gone. He just looked broken. 

“You can’t do it,” he whispered. “You can’t. I can’t.” 

“I know. I know. Come here. I know.”

Richie stepped over Bowers and fell into her arms. He wasn’t exactly weeping, but he was overcome. He screamed into her shoulder. 

“It’s a fine thing you two came along when you did,” Eddie said. “How did you—” 

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” Roxanne said. “I know what someone being held hostage sounds like. You two should go to the bathroom, get some clothes on. We’ll watch him.” 

They pulled on jeans and t-shirts and edged out of the room, keeping their eyes on Bowers, who was lying groaning on the ground. As they left, two cops brushed past them, rushing into the room. They brought Bowers out cuffed, screaming and cussing. 

“Yeah,” Roxanne said. “That’s the problem with .44 calibers at this range. Rip the shit out of things. You won’t have a tendon left in that shoulder, I reckon. No more squash for you, you scum. I want him under lockdown, you two.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Roxanne blew out a breath, hands on hips. 

“Well, you two can’t stay here. There’s still blood on the god damned floor. You’ll have to come back with us. The room’s pretty big, we can sleep on the couch. I mean, it’s nice. Not the Ritz, we are government workers, but I mean, hell, it’s better than this hell hole. I mean, at least our bathtub was built in this god damn century.” She stopped and squinted at Eddie. “Are you all right? I mean—”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay. Well—”

“No. I mean, I really am. I’m kind of freaking out, Roxanne. I—feel—fine.” 

“Well, you survived. It’s a hell of a rush. I know. But give yourself some space.”

“I don’t need space. I feel like I could run a marathon, guys, honest.” 

Richie didn’t look like he could run a marathon. He looked like he was going to vomit. He was pale and sweaty and shivering. Then he fell. Michelle had to catch him by the collar of his shirt and put him back on his feet. 

“Okay. All right. Let’s go.” 

Michelle and Eddie had to half-carry him, one under each arm. They were about the same height. They slid him in the backseat. 

“I think he’s sick,” Eddie said. “Roxanne can you—”

“You’re not sick,” Roxanne said. She pressed one cool hand to the back of Richie’s neck, pushing him to place his head between her knees. “Richie, you’re having another panic attack. Breathe in for five seconds, hold for two, out for five.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” 

She withdrew her hand, replacing it with Eddie’s. 

“Rich, I’m here. I’m all right.” 

He had to soothe him for almost five minutes, but eventually Richie’s breathing slowed down and some of his color returned. Eddie slid into the backseat with him, and they took off.


	17. Fly By Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered."  
—Tom Stoppard, “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.”

Richie woke up at five in the morning, after an hour of restless sleep, because the bathroom light clicked on. The door was open, and someone was breathing heavily. For a moment, he thought Eddie might be in trouble, but Eddie was next to him, sleeping like a baby. How, Richie couldn’t tell you. He guessed he might just be that much braver. He got up to check on the person in the bathroom, wondering if it might be Michelle. She had shot someone. An evil freak, sure, but still. 

It wasn’t Michelle. Roxanne was leaning against the sink, white nightgown hiked up, white panties showing, feet bare. Her left hand pressed to her lower back, compulsively stroking the ugly scar a couple millimeters to the left of her spine. 

“Are you all right?” 

Roxanne started, then let out a heavy breath. 

“Fine. Nightmare.”

They stood for a moment in silence. Richie was a little nervous that she might be embarrassed, undressed and panicking in front of a virtual male stranger, but he remembered that she’d rescued him while he was bare-ass naked and not said a word. The score was evened a bit, perhaps. 

“Sometimes I have to remind myself that he didn’t kill me,” she said. “I wake up, and I feel dead.”

“I feel like I’ve been dead for twenty-seven years. Like I just woke up. But it’s not…easy. It used to be easy, you know? I mean, it was hell, but…it was easy. I’d wake up in the morning, and then the pain would set in and it never stopped. I was a machine. I had nothing to lose. Now.”

“Now?”

“I got everything to lose,” Richie admitted. “I’m scared, Roxanne.”

“Yeah,” she said. 

She removed her hand, and Richie took a good look at the scar. It was an angry purple splotch, like the red eye of Jupiter, climbing her spine like a ladder. “Poultry shears,” she said, and laughed. “‘The Peer now spreads the glitt'ring Forfex wide,  
T'inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.  
Ev'n then, before the fatal Engine clos'd,  
A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd;  
Fate urg'd the Sheers, and cut the Sylph in twain,  
(But Airy Substance soon unites again)  
The meeting Points that sacred Hair dissever  
From the fair Head, for ever and for ever!’” 

Richie wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing. She laughed some more, and then sighed.

“It’s the kind of reference he would’ve made.” She tugged the nightgown down, stooping to sit on the rim of the bathtub. “Crazy how you think you know someone. I never saw it coming. But then, who does?”

“I guess we do,” Richie said. “Coming here. It’s like stepping in front of a train.”

“You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t think you could live. Hell, everyone does. I’m not saying it’s true. But you’re not stupid. You wouldn’t just send yourself to the slaughter. Only way, as I see it, is to trust yourself.”

“Will you come with me,” Richie demanded. It was phrased like a question, but it wasn’t.

Roxanne nodded.

“Let me get my boots.”

***

After Roxanne pulled on her galoshes and grabbed her bag, they set out into the misty Maine pre-dawn. The sky wasn’t even beginning to get light yet. Richie led them through the silent streets, feet occasionally splashing in a brown puddle or scattering piles of gravel. Roxanne didn’t know where they were going; she was a stranger to the town. Richie knew the way to the Barrens like the back of his hand. The houses thinned out and the lots got bigger as they approached Neibolt street, jogging past the house at the corner, and speeding down the bank to the stream marking separating where Derry proper ended and the Barrens began, slipping on slick, muddy tussocks of dead grass and gnarled, protruding roots. They skipped over the little brook, making for the line of trees on the other side of the blighted, mud-spattered field. Neither of them were wearing jackets. The cool morning air, saturated with liquid jewels of dew, nipped at Roxanne’s bare arms and calves. The hair on Richie’s arms was standing up with cold, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. This was his show, sprinting across Derry like a ghost returning to his burial site. Roxanne followed, swift on his heels. 

When they reached the clubhouse, Richie levered the trapdoor open and dropped down with a thump. Roxanne followed, a bit more slowly. They stood there in silence for a moment, listening to the rain patter on the slats forming the roof. 

“You said you were dead,” Roxanne reminded Richie. “Did you know you were dead?” 

“I felt it. I didn’t know why, but I was just…living a lie. All the time. It was like there were two versions of me: the real one, the one that remembered, and the one that forgot, the one that was the lie, and the real me, the me I am right now, was just…trapped. Like a ghost. I had nothing to do with the Richie Tozier that was walking around, getting paid. Now, I’m…awake, and it has nothing to do with this place, because I don’t want to be here, and it’s not because of the rest of my friends. I’m glad to see them, don’t get me wrong, but I got along okay without them. It’s him, Roxanne. I can’t. Without him.”

She nodded. 

“But in this shithole town in this shithole state, when I’m with him, it’s like waking up from a bad dream, and we are in danger, Roxanne, we are in so much danger, and I cannot, cannot, cannot get separated from him again, I can’t lose him, and I almost did—” 

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“Oh, come on—”

“I’m serious! I could give you a bunch of psychobabble, but the God’s honest truth is that the best way to be unhappy is to keep one foot in the past and the other in the future and shit all over the present. Stop thinking about what might have happened. It’s not easy, but it is simple.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“If I knew that, d’you think I’d be bustin’ my hump out here? I’d be livin’ on a fuckin’ island somewhere, drinking pina coladas and gettin’ stuck in the rain.”

They sat for a moment in silence. Finally, Roxanne got up and started rummaging around in her bag. “Fuck it. I’ll have to buy some more, but I think we need it.” 

“Need what—oh my God.”

She held up two little bottles of gin, the kind sold on airplanes for $9. 

“Gin? Could you have picked a more disgusting liquor to carry around with you?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I think I usually keep some peach schnapps with me, just in case I ever turn into a giant pussy, but I must’ve left it in my other pants. Do you want to get drunk or not?”

Richie grabbed the proffered bottle. 

“If I puke, you’re cleaning it up.”

“Hey. I’m the brilliant doctor, and you’re the uneducated dumbass joke teller. You clean up my puke, and I stop you from suffocating in yours.”

“Deal.” 

They clinked their plastic bottles together, cracked them open, and made the first in a long line of questionable choices.


	18. Paper Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne comes clean about her dark past. Eddie comes to a realization, and Richie makes a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,  
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,  
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,  
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!”   
—George Gordon, Lord Byron, “The Destruction of Sennacherib.”

When Eddie woke up at half past eight, Richie was gone. He tried not to panic, but not panicking had never been Eddie Kaspbrak’s strong suit, especially when it came to Richie. 

“Uh, Michelle?” 

He hesitated for a few moments before crossing the room to wake her up. He figured she’d might kick his ass, but at least he’d know where Roxanne and Richie were. He shook her, and she grunted and tried to shoo him away before opening her eyes. 

“Hey. Richie’s gone. Have you seen him?”

She groaned and waved him off. 

“S’fine. Let me sleep.”

“Roxanne’s gone, too.”

“Probably went to breakfast. Relax.” 

Just as she gently but firmly turned over and pulled the blanket up over her head, a loud retching noise came from the bathroom. 

“Oh, jeez,” Eddie groaned. 

Michelle swung her legs off the bed, resting her elbows on her knees, head dangling. It was the first time he’d seen her with her hair down. It made her look much younger, like she was a high school student, not a federal agent north of forty. When they entered the bathroom, it appeared empty at first glance. However, when Michelle yanked back the shower curtain, they saw Roxanne, in her nightgown and a pair of rain boots, lying in the tub in a nest of towels. A pile of puke was on the floor. 

“Oh, gross—” Eddie gasped. 

Michelle rolled her eyes and reached down to shake Roxanne’s shoulder. She mumbled something incoherent, slapping her hands away. 

“Lemme sleep.”

Fed up, Michelle turned on the shower. 

“Ahh! Jesus! I’m up! God!” 

“How drunk did you get last night?” Michelle signed, eyes narrowed. “And where’s Richie?”

“He’s here. I remember…we went out.” Roxanne got up, almost slipping on the puke, and crossed to sit down on the toilet. “We were drinking.”

“Duh. Where did you go?”

“I don’t remember. Why—oh, wait. I’m getting a crime report from the cops.”

“What?!” Eddie shrieked.

“Oh my God, you have to lower your fucking voice, or you’re gonna kill me. Relax. It’s not a murder. It’s…oh. Okay. I think I know where he is.” 

***  
Roxanne shuffled out of Michelle’s Honda Pilot at nine in the morning to look at the spray-paint spattered façade of Sonia Kaspbrak’s house. She was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a baggy University of Washington sweatshirt, as well as a big pair of aviators. A big canteen of black coffee was clutched in her left hand. 

“Oh, you are kidding me,” Michelle signed. “This is where you were?”

“I told you, I don’t remember anything. I was running, and we were shooting the shit, and then gin, and then I woke up when you turned the fucking shower on.” 

“He could be dead in a ditch, Roxanne! Or hit by a car, or—”

“Or asleep in those bushes,” she interrupted, pointing at the shock of dark curls visible behind the hydrangeas in Sonia’s side yard. 

Unfortunately, that was the exact time that the Derry cops decided to escort Sonia out of the house, all while taking her statement. 

“Oh God, hide me!” Eddie whimpered. 

“Behind the car,” Roxanne said, shoving him. “I’ll distract her. Get him in the car. Hey!” she hissed at Eddie, studiously not looking at him as he climbed into the backseat. “You know how badly my head fucking hurts, and you know the pitch and volume of this bitch’s voice. You’re gonna fuckin’ owe me.” 

Roxanne walked over, interrupting Sonia’s conversation with the cops. 

“Ma’am, did you see anyone outside yesterday?” she asked. 

“You! You tramp! Officer Buckley, this woman accused me of being some sort of—of—”

“No, finish your sentence,” Roxanne dared her. “You wanna tell this young man exactly what kind of a freak you are?”

“How—dare—you! I—I know who did this. It was either her, or it was that no-good pervert Richie Tozier.” 

“ME?” Roxanne asked, raising her voice. “You’re accusing a medical doctor, a goddamn P.h.D. psychologist, a profiler and federal agent, of spray-painting your house?”

Behind her, the word C U N T, rendered in bright red letters, was scrawled across the façade of the house. She surreptitiously scratched a fleck of red paint off the back of her hand. Behind her, Richie wiggled in Michelle’s grasp, and she almost dropped him. 

“Okay,” the local cop interposed. “Miss Little—”

“It’s AGENT Little, young man, and if it weren’t, it would be Mrs. Little,” Roxanne corrected, all too aware that if she were to loose their focus now, they would turn and see Michelle dragging a near-comatose Richie by the shirtfront towards the car. 

“Oh, really?” Sonia asked caustically. “You’re married? What does your husband think about you running around out here, doing all this mess?” 

“I’m married to a woman,” Roxanne said absently, listening to the sound of the Pilot’s trunk opening. 

“You’re a dyke. I might’ve known. How—”

“Oh my God, if you don’t take your voice down at least fifty decibels and three octaves, I am going to book you for assaulting a federal agent. You know what, fuck it. There are three kids missing, and if you people want to waste your time on this nonsense, fine. But I’m gone.” 

She turned on her heel and stalked away. When she got in the car, Richie was lying facedown in the backseat, completely passed out. 

“We should take him to the hospital!” 

Roxanne winced. Even when Eddie wasn’t really raising his voice, he was still pretty loud. And he was definitely raising his voice. Far be it from a self-respecting feminist like Roxanne to chide someone for being shrill, but her head was in danger of shattering into a million tiny pieces. 

“’S just a hangover. No point.”

“Um, he could have alcohol poisoning! He could be—” 

Richie broke in with an earth-shattering snore. 

“Turn him over on his side,” Roxanne advised. “That’s how Hendrix died.” 

“I don’t think that’s funny!” 

Roxanne gave a jaw-cracking yawn, slumping over the passenger side dashboard. 

“Hello!” Eddie shouted. “Are you listening to me?” 

“Yes,” she groaned. “He’s not going to die. I’m pretty sure…”

Richie snored again in his sleep, then, belched. The burp was followed by a meaty squelching sound, and an odor. 

“Aw, geez!” Roxanne groaned. “Not in my backseat!” 

“Ugh, it’s all over me, Roxanne, it’s fucking black, what did you feed him—” 

“Feed him? I didn’t feed him anything! I told you, we were drinking gin, and then we must’ve tagged the house. I don’t remember anything else. And I’d appreciate if you didn’t treat me like the bad guy from a ‘Just Say No’ skit. Your boyfriend is forty, and I didn’t force-feed him anything.” 

“I mean, honestly, are the two of you fifteen years old? You get drunk and spray paint a house? Not to mention that you just ditched him in the bushes—” 

“Eddie, listen to me. I like and respect you, and I consider us to be friends, but I’m begging you to pipe down.” 

They got out of the car. Michelle opened the door to the backseat, and immediately gagged. 

“Oh God,” she signed. “It’s like cold oatmeal, it stinks—” 

“Jesus, I’m gonna barf—” 

Roxanne, stomach already upset from her hangover, stumbled away and ejected a thin stream of ochre-colored liquid onto the parking lot. Eddie, whose hoodie was splashed with Richie’s vomit, also began to retch. Somehow, they managed to drag Richie back into the hotel room, pushed him into the tub, and turned on the shower. He woke up, sputtering and cursing.

“Morning,” Roxanne said. “How’s your head?”

“Mushy. My back hurts. What happened last night?”

“Apparently we wrecked up Eddie’s mom’s house and spray-painted the C-word in six foot tall letters On an unrelated note, someone replaced my white matter with angry bees.” 

“I can’t believe you!” Eddie broke in. He’d stripped off his sweatshirt and was scrubbing at it aggressively in the sink. “You get drunk and paint swears on my mom’s house—” 

“First of all, is it a slur if it’s a scientific truth? Second of all, what are you yelling at me for? I hardly ever drink, so it’s not much of a stretch that it’d hit me pretty hard. Yell at him, he’s a standup comedian, he probably does cocaine every Thursday evening—” 

“Never done cocaine,” Richie protested. “You never know what they cut it with.”

“Oh, look who’s being sensible now—”

“Can it, both of you,” Michelle signed. “Roxanne—” 

“If it’s not some nice hot tea with lemon, I don’t want it.” 

“Well, if you want me to fetch you some tea, you’re gonna have to tell us all why you don’t drink much.” 

“Oh, no, Chelle, I don’t like that story—” 

Richie poked his head out of the shower. 

“What story?” 

“Is it funny?” Eddie asked. 

“Oh, it’s funny,” Chelle replied. “It’s a trip.” 

“Hmm,” Eddie mused. “I could use a laugh. I’ll tell you what. I have some Zofran in my suitcase. If you tell us this story, you can have some.” 

Roxanne groaned. 

“You’d deny a nauseous woman Zofran for not dancing for your amusement, like some sort of monkey—” 

“You’re the one who decided to go out and get smashed, not me. It’s up to you.” 

“Fine,” Roxanne sighed, struggling to sit up. She scooted back on the bed so that she was sitting up against the headboard, holding one of the pillows on her lap. “It happened when I was seventeen. Right after Chelle and I graduated, we went out to party in Vancouver. Took a train. The drinking age was eighteen in Canada at the time, so it was totally legal for us to get smashed. We got drunk, drunker, drunkest, and somehow I decided that I wanted to break into Sea Land of the Pacific and free the whales.”

“Sea Land of the Pacific?” Eddie asked. 

“It was a kind of cut-rate Sea World. Basically a concrete swimming pool and a couple whales in it. I smashed a window, messed with some levers, and next thing I knew, I was waking up in my own bed, and my dad was downstairs watching a TV report about someone breaking into a Vancouver theme park and freeing five orcas, three seals, and four sea lions.” Roxanne sighed. “I found out later that each of those whales was worth like, three million dollars. I stole fifteen million dollars worth of whales.”

Richie and Eddie stared at her. They spoke at once:

“Are you—”

“What on Earth—” 

“They never caught you?” Richie asked, incredulous.

She shrugged. 

“I was in Seattle, across the border. From what I heard, they had an image of me out of a security cam, but it was dark, and the eighties, and nothing came of it.”

“And this didn’t come up in your personality exam for the FBI?” Eddie asked.

“First, I’m a consultant, not a full agent. Secondly, no, because I lied about it. Zofran, please, now.” 

Eddie sighed. 

“Hey, hey, hey! We had a deal! I tell you the funny drunk whale story, and you give me nausea meds.” 

“Okay, okay.” Eddie kicked open his suitcase and pulled out a ziploc bag full of pill bottles. He shuffled them around, and finally pulled one out, tossing it to Roxanne. 

“Thank you,” she sing-songed, cracking it open and shaking out a tablet. “I—hey! This isn’t Zofran!” 

“Yeah, it is! I took one just yesterday!”

“No, it’s not.” Roxanne dumped the pills out on the coverlet, examining them. “Eddie, these are Clozaril. How many do you take?”

“I—I don’t know. One a day. Sometimes two. Is that bad?”

“Who gives these to you?” 

“My wife picks them up for me,” Eddie whispered. “Am I gonna be okay?” 

Roxanne sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I—yes. If I was your doctor, I’d want to run some liver tests, but not before taking you off this shit immediately.”

“What’s Clozaril?” Eddie asked, voice trembling. 

“It’s an atypical antipsychotic.”

“What?” Eddie asked. “I’m not—Richie, Roxanne, I’m not crazy! I don’t—”

“No,” Roxanne said. “You’re not. You’re not even psychotic. These pills are meant for one thing and one thing alone: to make problematic people behave. To slow them down. This is true for you, and this is true for every non-adherent schizophrenic these are prescribed to. I don’t think anyone should take these, but that’s a different can of worms. You’re not even sick with the illness these are supposed to treat.” 

“What if I am?” Eddie asked, voice trembling. One of his hands was clutching his cheek. The other was shoved into his hair. “What if there’s something I don’t know? What if I really—”

“Eddie, what? Are you kidding me? I’ve known you your whole life, there’s nothing wrong with you!” 

“I read that schizophrenic breaks happen in your twenties. I wasn’t…you weren’t…” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Roxanne said. “Eddie, there is nothing wrong with you, except for a willingness to accept bad behavior from the people close to you. Look at me.” She grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently. “Come on. Look at me.” 

He looked up at her, deflated. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear, wide, and earnest. She wasn’t lying. “Nothing wrong with you,” she repeated. She flicked her eyes at Richie for support. 

“Not a fucking thing,” Richie said, winding an arm around Eddie’s waist. “You’re perfect.” His voice wavered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, babe,” Eddie said. His voice was unsteady, too. Richie’s stomach was still roiling with rage, but he couldn’t help the way his heart skipped a beat when Eddie called him “babe.” “What for?”

“Leaving you,” Richie said. His voice broke. “If I hadn’t left, then this never would’ve happened to you. I left, and you got hurt.” He sniffed, and felt like scum for doing it, because he wasn’t the one who was being poisoned, and the last thing that he wanted for Eddie was to feel like he had to comfort Richie instead of Richie comforting him. But then Eddie reached up and put a cool hand on the back of Richie’s neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “Rich, I’m okay. It’s okay. We’re together now.”

“I’m sorry I got drunk,” Richie said voice muffled by Eddie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I spray-painted your mom’s house with cuss words. I’m sorry I puked on you.” 

Eddie gave a wet laugh. 

“Remember when I threw up in your lap when we were in math class in fifth grade? You just evened the score. And I appreciate the sentiment. She is a cunt. But I’d feel better if you just ignored her from now one. I’d prefer it if she didn’t even know that you existed. I don’t want her thinking about you. It makes me feel dirty.” 

“He’s right,” Roxanne said. They looked up, a little startled. They’d momentarily forgotten her presence. “I’m not a conflict-avoidant person, but I don’t recommend any contact. She has nothing you need.” She looked around. “I think you two could use some down time. This place is empty as hell. I’ll pick the lock of the adjoining suite.” 

“Are you pushing us out?” Eddie asked.

“I don’t ask for a lot. All I ask is that if you’re going to have some romantic, emotional sex, do it in your own room.” 

“I wasn’t—I mean—”   
“Well, now that you mention it—” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Roxanne shuffled out into the hall and started to mess with the lock of the door next door. “You know, I was young once, too.” 

“Aren’t you like, eight years older than us?”

“Show some goddamn respect for your elders.” The door swung open. “All yours. I’m going to go run a bath and sit in there with the lights off, so if you need to call me, don’t.” 

She shut the door with a decided click, leaving Eddie and Richie in the doorway. Eddie sighed and leaned against Richie. Richie closed the door behind them. 

“You okay?” Richie asked. “You wanna talk about it?” 

“I don’t know. I mean, my mom told me I was sick, but I just told myself for so long that she wasn’t lying, just…worried. But Myra, she…she poisoned me. I mean, how blind am I? How stupid? What is it about me that—” He whirled around, eyes wide, lips parted. “Richie, I forgot!” 

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Richie, do you know the one thing that made it possible for me to stand up to my mom?”

“You—you were brave, you—” 

“Oh, fuck that, Richie, I’ve never been brave—” 

Richie opened his mouth to argue, but Eddie blew past him, talking in that double-fast quick-time patter that Richie remembered so fondly. “I told her it was my friends, but that was a lie, it was a lie, Richie, because it was you, it was always you, and I forgot.” 

“Forgot what?”

“The way you treated me,” Eddie whispered. “You treated me so well. You were sweet. Kind.” He shook his head, eyed full of tears. “Rich, I remember. Everything. You bought me ice cream, held me in Bill’s garage, but your own body between me and that clown in Neibolt. We were in danger, and you protected me. You didn’t hesitate for a second.”

“I loved you,” Richie said. He didn’t hesitate. “I would’ve done anything for you. I still love you. Hell, I was just a kid then, even though I loved you like an adult. Now, I think I might love you even more, now that I’m grown enough to appreciate you. Before, all I could think of was how scared I was, and how wonderful you were, but you were…unattainable.” Richie stooped to kiss Eddie’s cheek, pulse speeding up as he felt Eddie’s eyelashes flutter against his temple. “I want good things for you, Eddie. You deserve them. It would be nice if I were the one to give them to you, but if there’s better than me out there—” 

“There isn’t,” Eddie said. “Not for me.” 

When they kissed, it was soft and sweet. Eddie’s lips tasted like Scope and medicinal Chapstick. Richie licked into Eddie’s mouth, running his tongue over every inch of Eddie’s mouth. When they broke apart, Eddie looked up at him, a little starstruck. 

“Wow, Rich,” he said. 

“She’ll never touch you again,” Richie said. He took Eddie’s chin in his fingers, tilting his head up so that Eddie was looking him in the eyes. “Hear me? I swear to you, neither of them. Ever.” 

“I believe you,” Eddie said, smiling. “My hero. You save me from my mean wife, and I’ll save you from your mile-wide self-destructive streak. Deal?” 

“Deal,” Richie said, amazed at Eddie’s beauty. Amazed at his good luck. “Did I hypnotize you or something? Am I going to say the word ‘Allspice,’ and you’re gonna wake up screaming?” 

“Oh, please,” Eddie laughed. “As if someone as dumb as you could get one over on someone as stubborn as me.” 

“Fair point, Mr. Kaspbrak,” Richie conceded, leaning in for another kiss. “Fair point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so screamin' long. School got ca-razy, and I started a new fic that got some attention: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388003 It's a reddie post-apocalypse zombie au, so check it out! I'll try to split my time more evenly in the future.


	19. Love Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut with very little plot written by a dyke English major. TW: brief homophobic language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If I could begin to be  
Half of what you think of me,  
I could do about anything.   
I could even learn how to love  
Like you.  
When I see the way you act,  
Wondering if I’m coming back,  
I could do about anything.  
I could even learn how to love  
Like you.   
I always thought I might be bad,   
Now I’m sure that it’s true,  
’Cause I think you’re so good,  
And I’m nothing like you.  
Look at you go,  
I just adore you,  
And I wish that I knew  
What makes you think  
I’m so special.”  
—Rebecca Sugar, “Love Like You.”

Eddie wrapped his arms around Richie, surging up into his arms, kissing him sloppy and passionate. Richie could feel the twist of his muscles under the soft fabric of his polo. Eddie’s hands grabbed at his waist, plucking at the cheap fabric of his shirt. He was taken by surprise by the pure, unmitigated desire he felt for Richie. He remembered jerking off to that stupid, shitty poster in the half bath in his neat two-bedroom and wanted to burst out laughing. This, the real thing, was so much better. Richie still smelled like peppermint and patchouli, and his hands were still big, soft, and gentle, skating over Eddie’s arms, chest, face, hair, and thighs. He cupped Eddie’s face in those big, gentle hands, tilting him up, cradling him, kissing him like he was something precious. His belly flopped as Richie held him close. Richie was bigger than him, but not in a scary way, because it was Richie, who didn’t have a mean bone in his body, except when he was protecting his friends. Eddie opened his eyes and immediately blushed. Richie was staring at him like he was having a religious experience. 

“Richie,” he said. “What—” 

“I wish the whole world could see this,” Richie whispered. “I wish your wife could see this. That you belong to me.” 

Just the suggestion of exposure was scary, but undeniably arousing. The idea of Myra watching them, of seeing how Eddie was around his friends, around Richie was both frightening and exciting. 

“What would you do?” Eddie asked, voice quirking upwards into a squeak as Richie kissed up his neck. “What—ohh—do you want her to see?”

“Hmm,” Richie said, considering. His face was flushed, but he had a confident, almost cocky expression, miles away from the fear endemic in him just a few days ago. It was catnip to Eddie. He loved it when Richie was at peace, confident in himself, free from fear and self-doubt. One of Richie’s hands was restlessly smoothing down his hair. The other was cupping his ass, rubbing at the small of his back. “Well, first things first. I’d want to kiss you just like this.” Richie dipped him and kissed him, softly at first, then passionately. All Eddie could do was open his mouth to Richie’s tongue and hold on for dear life. The first and last time he’d been kissed on the mouth had been the day of his wedding, and that had been a chaste peck that had made his skin crawl, nothing like this. The feeling of Richie’s lips on his, his tongue down his throat made his head spin and his toes curl. He felt utterly claimed and owned, and it was really turning his crank in a way that was just unfair. “You’ve got such a damn pretty mouth.”

Eddie blushed. 

“Please.” 

“Oh, honey, your mouth. Your mouth is so fucking gorgeous.” Richie passed a thumb over Eddie’s lower lip, dipping in briefly to his mouth. Eddie sucked his finger briefly, licking the pad of Richie’s thumb. Richie made a brief involuntary noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “I’d get down on my knees in front of you then, and I’d take out your gorgeous cock and put it in my mouth. I’d worship you, down there, show her what you deserve. Show you how much I love you, how good I can make you feel.” He made a considering noise. “What do you want me to do?” 

Eddie paused, a little bashful. It wasn’t easy for him to say it out loud, that he wanted his best friend to put his cock in his ass. But it wasn’t easy for Richie, either. Eddie knew that much.

And he did want it. God knows, he really wanted it.

“I want you to put me on my back,” he whispered, face cherry-red, wiggling that much closer to Richie. I want you to put me on my back, I want you to watch while I open myself up for you, as she watches me say your name, crying, reaching out for you…” He took a deep breath and plunged on; voice barely audible. “…begging…” 

Richie’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were wide and dark. He looked stunned and so very hungry. Eddie was pleased. 

“So pretty, Eddie, god damn,” he breathed. 

“I love you,” Eddie whimpered. “Richie…” 

“Oh, I love you, I love you, Eddie, please…” 

The edge of desperation in Richie’s voice, his desire…

“Richie.”

“What?” 

“Why me?” 

Richie laughed, like it was the silliest question in the world. Like Eddie had asked him why the sky was blue, or why the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening. 

“It’s always been you, Eddie. It just has.” 

“There has to be a reason. What is it about me that makes me worthy of this sort of attention?” 

“Because you’re brave and smart and tough and you never, ever give up. You’re easy to talk to and loving, you’re compassionate and you always try to do the right thing. When you decide what’s right and what’s wrong, self-interest and convenience never enter the equation. You always try to do what’s right, even if it means that you have to go out of your way or take risks. You’re stubborn and beautiful and headstrong, and I’ve never been happier or freer—more myself—than when I’m with you.” 

Eddie closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. He’d seen that, when they were children. How Richie changed around him. The way he managed, occasionally, when they were alone, to drop his defensive and snarky façade, and admit that he was sad, or frightened, or angry. How Richie had clung to him when they parted and beamed at him when they reunited. 

Eddie was torn. He wanted to luxuriate in Richie’s affection, and it certainly felt nice, someone he trusted having that sort of regard for him, but he also felt a deep sinking sensation in his stomach, because he wasn’t what Richie thought he was. Sure, he’d had his moments in childhood. Confronting the clown, walking into Neibolt, those were brave deeds, especially for a thirteen-year-old kid. That was what Richie saw, not the beaten-down, pathetic man he’d become in the years since. 

Richie said something, but Eddie was too distracted to hear it.

“Come again?”

“I said, get out of your head.”

“Is it that obvious?” 

Richie nodded. 

“I like to think I know you pretty well.” Richie spun around and sat down on the bed. Eddie stood between his thighs, both of his hands folded between Richie’s long fingers. “Is it…” He blushed. “Do you feel…I don’t know…weird? About this?” He gestured between them.

“What? No! No, I—I don’t—” Eddie shook his head, like he was trying to rattle a thought loose. “Richie, I’m just afraid that—that you might—”

“That I might what?”

“What do you want? From me, I mean. I…I’m married, Rich, and I don’t intend to stay that way, but it’ll be a process, and you—if word gets out, you could be in the papers, on the internets, it is a huge risk for you, for what? You’re moderately wealthy, you’re sort-of famous, you’re good-looking—” 

“You think I’m good-looking?”

“Oh, shut up, I’m talking. I don’t—I—why would you want to be with me?” 

Richie looked at him like he was speaking Klingon. 

“Pardon?”

“I just—I want you to know your options, okay? Because I don’t want you to go into this thinking that you couldn’t get someone else, and that you have to settle, because you—and I’m not endorsing this, but you could definitely find someone younger, or, I don’t know, what do they call them, twumps—” 

Muted laughter came from the room next door, but not even God herself could’ve stopped Eddie now that he had gained momentum.

“—and you always used to look out for me, Rich, but you don’t owe me anything.” He was winding down, now, unable to even look at Richie, unsure of what he was going to see on his face. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for me, Rich, I don’t want you to.” 

They were Renaissance children, becalmed beneath the Bridge of Sighs, Siamese children, related by the heart, bleeding from the surgery of initial confrontation, holding the words, scalpels, on trembling lips. There was nowhere else for him to look. He had to meet Richie’s eyes, and all he could think when he did was:

Oh, no, no, no, this is not what I wanted! 

Richie’s eyes were full of tears. He took a shaky breath, and:

“Eds, if you don’t want—this—all you have to do—” 

“NO!” Eddie clapped both hands to his mouth, voice raw and trembling. “No, you don’t understand, I want this too much, and—and—” 

Fuck it, he thought.

“—I’m scared, Rich, because I want it too much, and if I—if we—and if you—” 

He didn’t have to finish his sentence, because Richie came up and embraced him. There was no kiss, not yet, but he took Eddie in his arms with unbearable tenderness and let him cry into his chest. 

“Oh, Eds,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I know, I know. I won’t leave you,” and Richie knew him, God, how he knew him, for better or for worse, Richie knew Eddie and he knew him well, “I know I did before, and I’ll never forgive myself for that, but I won’t ever do it again.” 

Eddie’s brain was still on. He didn’t know that he could ever turn it off entirely, but the high- frequency wail of his insecurities and anxiety was pushed way, way, way back to his hindbrain as Richie’s hands clamped down on his hips. He backed up until his butt hit the bed, and he pulled Richie down on top of him.

“Ooof!”

“Hey,” Richie chided, wiggling forwards so that they were lying on the bed instead of hanging off of it. “I know I ain’t exactly skinny anymore, but there’s no need for that.” 

“Richie?” 

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Richie shivered as Eddie kissed his lips again, then broke away to kiss up the side of his face. He stopped to nuzzle at Richie’s temple, breathing hot air on the sensitive skin and feeling Richie’s pulse thundering. 

“Yes, sir,” Richie breathed. 

Eddie smiled a quick, private smile, and then changed course. He nipped at Richie’s earlobe, kissed at his pulse point, then finally pulled back. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he whispered.

“Again?” Richie asked.

Eddie stifled a laugh.

“No, no, that’s not—that’s not what I meant, I just—I mean—you aren’t still…sore?” 

Eddie considered. There was a little tugging sensation down there whenever he moved his legs in a certain way, but it was nice. Pleasant. That tenderness was powerfully erotic, if he was telling the truth. It was a constant reminder of Richie. Inside him. It was a feeling he wanted more of. 

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh, but the lube—” 

“Spit on your fingers.”

Richie looked a little dubious, but he did as he was told, and the second he slid a finger inside of Eddie, he moaned. 

“Fuck, you’re still so open—” 

Eddie couldn’t suppress the high, wrecked moan that left his lips at the sensation of Richie’s finger slipping inside him so easily, as well as his murmured words. He shivered at the thought of his slutty, fucked-out hole yielding to Richie like he was nothing, just waiting for him to slip inside and claim him, anytime, anywhere he wanted—

Richie had moved up to two fingers, and Eddie was rolling his hips back, trying to get him deeper, and he still couldn’t control his noises. An endless cascade of “Richie” was falling from his lips, and he fair wailed as Richie slipped in a third finger, tears falling from his eyes at the shock of pleasure that lanced up his spine, the frustration, the desire for Richie to hurry the fuck up—

***

In the room next door, Roxanne briefly lifted the wet washcloth that she had folded and draped across her eyes. She looked over at Michelle, who was sitting on the toilet, legs crossed, reading Psychology Today. 

“Do you ever miss that stage in our relationship? You know, when everything had to be right freakin’ now?”

Michelle looked up, raised an eyebrow, huffed a short laugh through her nostrils, and then shook her head.

***  
Eddie rolled onto his stomach, shakily lifting himself onto his hands and knees. Richie’s fingers rotated inside of him, gasping as the pads of his fingers drummed against his prostate. 

“What—where are you—” 

“No, no, like this,” Eddie moaned, reaching back to take hold of him, brushing his hip, trailing down to stroke his cock, groaning an oath when he felt how hard he was. “Please. I want you to take me, I want you to show me you own me, please, please, please—” 

It was such a slutty thing to say, and such a slutty thing to want, to be taken from behind. As far as you knew, it was any goddamn person fucking you, and thoughts of his mother floated through his head for just one moment, mostly about how disappointed she was/is/would be, that he had turned out to be everything she hadn’t wanted him to be. A queer. A disgusting faggot who loved to take it up the ass without a condom. A philanderer. A soon-to-be divorce. A Democrat. 

Richie Tozier’s whore. 

Then, after a moment or so of uncomfortable introspection, all thoughts ceased, because Richie’s hands fitted themselves to his hips, tilting him upwards, and ohholymotherfuck he was pressing forwards, and he felt so much bigger like this, and the pulling-stretching-pressure feeling was much more intense, still not pain, but still not entirely benign, but he needed it, God, he needed it, because it kept him in his body, and in his body was where he needed to be. 

“Shh,” Richie said. His voice was very faint, and Eddie was almost indignant, because how could he be so calm when the membranes between them were so burningly and achingly porous. He felt a cool hand between his shoulder blades, soothing him. Richie’s other hand meandered up his chest to cup his chin and card through his hair before gripping one of Eddie’s thighs. “Sweetheart.”

Eddie made a sound that was half a moan and half a sob. “I’m right here. I’m right here.” 

Prove it, Eddie thought, but at the last minute, he decided not to say it. 

Richie, however, heard everything, said and unsaid, from Eddie. People assumed that he didn’t pay attention, and they were mostly right. There were many things that Richie Tozier didn’t pay attention to. Stan’s lectures on birds. Trigonometry lessons. His mother’s tirades. His manager’s pleas that he get a girlfriend. Ben’s discourses on “alt” pop, which sounded just like regular pop to Richie. But he always paid attention to Eddie Kaspbrak. 

He waited for a few more moments for Eddie to relax enough to allow him to push forwards, and then, using his hands on Eddie’s hips for leverage, pushed in the final few inches. He missed seeing Eddie’s face, being able to gauge his reactions that way, but the tremor in Eddie’s back muscles and the quiver in his breathing told him all he needed to know. Also, in that position, Richie could bring his thumbs to Eddie’s cheeks and pull them apart, giving him a magnificent view of his cock buried in that gorgeous ass. He needed to catch his breath after that sight. That beautiful red pucker clenching around the base of his cock, letting out a thin, shining dribble of his saliva and semen, as Eddie moved his hips vainly in Richie’s grasp, trying to fuck himself. Richie’s heart was beating hard, and his breath was coming in short pants. He wondered how he was supposed to know if he was having a heart attack. 

“Eddie,” he said, voice strained. “Are you all right?”

Eddie gave a tiny nod but didn’t speak.

“Am I hurting you?”

To his surprise, Eddie laughed. 

“No. No. You could never hurt me.” 

“Can I—” 

“Please. Please.”

The slide out was slow, partly because Richie still didn’t feel good about the amount of prep that they’d done, and partly because the idea of retreating from that hot, tight, wet cavern was the stupidest fucking idea Richie’s primate brain had ever heard. The push back in was also slow—until Eddie grabbed Richie’s thigh and turned around partially, and the look on his face had half turned Richie on and half scared him to pieces. 

“Speed. Up.” 

So he slid back in faster, and that did something, because Eddie’s back went ramrod straight and he pushed back with a loud cry. Richie repeated the process, Eddie, fucking back with every stroke, and between the tightwetvelvet sensation of Eddie’s asshole and the visual of Eddie’s perfect cheeks jiggling as he fucked himself on Richie’s cock, and all the pretty noises he was making, the “oh Richies” and the “uh-uh-uhs,” Richie knew he wasn’t going to last long. To help Eddie along (and to spare himself the misfortune of coming first on only their third sexual encounter), Richie reached under him to grip his cock, but Eddie slapped his hand away. 

“Huh—?”

“I’m so close—I want—just talk to me,” Eddie moaned. He did sound close. In fact, he sounded near tears. 

For maybe the first time ever, Richie got stage fright. What was he supposed to say? He reached out for encouraging voices, but his parents and his manager certainly wouldn’t have endorsed this. Then, after what was probably a second, but felt like an hour, Roxanne’s voice echoed through his head. 

“Communicate, be confident, and do everything from a place of love and respect. Get in there, tiger!”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice choked with how much he meant it. “Eds, you’re so pretty. And I love you. I love you. And—” He swallowed, mouth dry. “And you take my cock so well, sweetheart. Like you were born to do it.” Eddie moaned, clearly past the point of no return, but Richie kept talking, like he always had. “I’m gonna take care of you, Eds. I’m gonna just—spend the rest of my life doing whatever it takes to make you happy. I’m gonna hold you in my arms every night, and kiss you and tell you that I love you every morning, and I—I wanna marry you, in some big church, in front of all of our friends, and I want to invite my parents just so that I can tell them to fuck off, and I want to take you places, sweetheart, on our honeymoon, I want to take you to Paris, London, and San Fran, Venice, Vienna, Budapest, Krakow, Amsterdam…”

Richie had started coming somewhere around the wedding, and his vision had greyed out somewhere around the honeymoon. When he came back to himself, he was laying on top of Eddie, whose arms were around, him, and who was kissing him so deeply that for a moment, he was concerned that Eddie thought he might be dead. He opened his eyes, but that didn’t help much, because his glasses were gone. Eddie pulled back with a faint pop, and said:

“Whoops. Hold on.” 

The glasses were placed back on his face, and he saw Eddie beneath him, looking rumpled and tired and so beautiful that Richie couldn’t help but bully his way back into his mouth. Eddie responded with a pleased hum, cupping the back of Richie’s head with one palm. 

“Did you—” Richie asked.

Eddie gave an embarrassed laugh. 

“Oh, yeah.”

Richie pulled back a little, saw the spidery strands of come on Eddie’s belly, and smiled. 

“That was unbelievable,” Eddie sighed, rolling over onto his side and putting his hand on Richie’s chest. The cool of his wedding ring burned a brand just above his heart. Eddie followed his eyes and withdrew his hand.

“Shit. Sorry.” 

“No, no. It’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Eddie colored, twisting the band. 

“What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t own any part of you, Eddie.”

Eddie took in a breath, thrown by Richie’s use of his real name. He opened his mouth to say something saucy, but Richie interrupted him. 

“Neither do I. Neither does your mom, or Bill, or anyone else. Nobody should get to push you around.”

For a moment, Eddie thought that Richie might be making fun of him, but when he met his gaze, his dark eyes were big and earnest. Eddie removed the ring, tossing it down on the nightstand without a thought, and turned to give Richie a smile—not a tiny private one, or one of the lip-twitched wrested unwillingly from him by Richie’s hijinks—a real, wide smile that, as the bard wrote, “taught the torches to burn bright.” 

Richie was duly dazzled.


	20. Sugar Mice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne has a tense showdown with Sonia. Events get set in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I was flicking through the channels on the TV   
On a Sunday in Milwaukee in the rain   
Trying to piece together conversations   
Trying to find out where to lay the blame 
> 
> I heard Sinatra calling me through the floorboards   
Where you pay a quarter for a partnership in rhyme   
To the jukebox crying in the corner   
While the waitress is counting out the time 
> 
> So if you want my address it's number one at the end of the bar   
Where I sit with the broken angels clutching at straws and nursing our scars…”
> 
> —“Sugar Mice,” Marillion, from Clutching at Straws

The next day, many things happened at once. Bill left to confront Pennywise on his own. Mike was scurrying around, trying to rally everyone for a final confrontation. But Roxanne, Michelle, Richie, and Eddie were nowhere to be found. They were at the police station, having an apocalyptic showdown with Sonia Kaspbrak. 

The Derry Chief of Police summoned Roxanne to the station at ten that morning. Sonia wanted to talk to her, and he was no match for her nagging and her tears. So, donned her blouse and skirt, put on some makeup, and made her way down. Michelle, Richie, and Eddie accompanied her. They were all silent, fearing some unknown evil. 

When they arrived, Roxanne made her way into the interrogation room. Sonia was sitting at the table, wearing a red blouse and a beige skirt. She looked made-up and in control. A faint smile hovered over her lips. Eddie felt nauseous. 

There were no cops in the building. They had bigger fish to fry than Sonia Kasprak’s vandalized house. The five of them were alone. 

“Something’s wrong,” Eddie had whispered into Roxanne’s ear. 

“I know,” she muttered in reply. 

“Ah,” Sonia said. She was gloating. “Agent Little. You came.” 

“I did.” 

Neither of them spoke, and Eddie was confused for a moment. Then he saw the gun.

“Oh God,” he gasped. “Oh my God. Michelle—”

“Don’t move,” Roxanne said. 

“She’s talking to us,” Michelle signed. “Let her do her thing.” 

“What are you going to do?” Roxanne asked. “Kill me? Hell, you could.” She grabbed the muzzle of Sonia’s gun and pressed it to her own chest, right over her heart. “Of course, you’d die, too. My wife is right through that glass. She’ll blow your head off proper, even if she can’t save me. You and I both know that the only way your son will be free of you is when you’re six feet under. If my death is the price for getting him out from under you, then so be it. I’ve lived. I’ve had two children, both grown. He hasn’t. Do it. Do it, motherfucker, pull the trigger, you goddamn cunt—” 

After a few moments—days, months, years—Sonia lowered the gun. She was slumped and defeated. “I thought not,” Roxanne said softly. “I’ll never respect you, Sonia. Not as a human being, and certainly not as a mother. But if you had shot me, in the moment before I bled out, I would’ve respected you more, because you would’ve showed me that you had the courage of a single one of your convictions.” 

She left the room. Eddie, Richie and Michelle all tried to speak to her, but she didn’t stop to listen. She left the building, and Eddie followed her. She was standing by her car, holding a lighter to a cigarette pinned between her lips. 

“Michelle thinks you’re wearing a vest,” he said.

She turned. Not all the way, mind you, but just enough for him to see the blue of her left eye through her hair. “She thinks you knew that she had a gun. But you aren’t, are you?”

She didn’t reply.

“You were going to let her kill you!” 

“She didn’t have it in her.”

“You didn’t know that! Why would you…why?” 

Roxanne sighed. 

“Because I’ve…done things. Many things. I have had a chance to live. I can’t imagine—you’ve been living in stasis, Eddie. I want for you…it is heartbreaking that…I did my job.”

“Do you have a death wish? I—I am asking, because I never wanted—I didn’t ask you to do any of this!” Blood was pounding in Eddie’s temples. The idea that someone could get hurt, or killed, because of him was almost too much to bear. “What are you running from that’s so horrible that you’re trying to—what am I, some sort of project? A charity case?”

In the moment before Roxanne could school her face, Eddie saw real hurt in the curve of her mouth and the tilt of her eyes. Eddie was horrified. “Oh, God, no. I don’t know, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. These past couple of days…you have to believe me…but you didn’t answer my question! Why are you—what happened in Albuquerque?” 

“I already told you,” she said. Her back was still turned. She was resting all of her weight on her palms, which were pressed against the hood of her car. Eddie could see the tension in her shoulders. “I didn’t do my job. Someone died. He was just a kid, had his whole life ahead of him, you know? A boy, no older than my daughter. He risked everything to help me make my case, and I didn’t protect him. I failed him, and now he’s gone. And yeah, I didn’t kill him, but when it comes right down to it, there’s no use trying to pretend, and there’s no one here that’s left to blame. And I know what I want, I know what I am, I know what I need. I’m a pusher. I take risks. And sometimes, the people who are around me, who never signed up for any of it, turn out to be collateral damage. I mean, is that what you want to hear? That I’m selfish? That I got greedy, I got sloppy? That I’m struggling? I mean, what do you want me to say?”

Eddie was silent for a few moments. He shifted his weight, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes. He was cold, so he zipped up his jacket. Then he walked up to Roxanne and, after a brief pause to summon his courage, took her hand. It was cold in his, and he was a little grossed out by the prickly, ropy ridge of scar tissue that bisected her palm, but it felt good to remind himself that she was real. That this was real.

“I barely know you,” he said. “I mean, I don’t feel like I barely know you, but it’s only been three days. But in those three days, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty to save and improve my life. So if you’re always that productive, I’d say that the world is a damn sight better off with you in it.” 

She didn’t reply. There was pain in her that his words couldn’t touch, and that wasn’t a good feeling, but Eddie accepted it. 

“You do not have to be good.  
You do not have to walk on your knees  
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
love what it loves,” he said quietly.   
“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.  
Meanwhile the world goes on.  
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain  
are moving across the landscapes,   
over the prairies and the deep trees,  
the mountains and the rivers.  
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,  
are heading home again.” 

Next to him, Roxanne was weeping. She made almost no noise, and her spare hand came up to dash the tears away as soon as they emerged, but they were arriving too quickly. He didn’t look at her. All he could do was stand there and let her quietly maintain her dignity, just as he quietly maintained his. They were proud people, and it was difficult for them to expose their pain to each other, and for a moment, it was a relief to be freed from expectations of recovery, and to just stand, in the wet midmorning, together, like sugar mice in the rain.


	21. Neverland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choices are made, and events are set in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When the darkness takes me over   
Face down, emptier than zero   
Invisible you come to me   
...quietly   
Stay beside me   
Whisper to me ‘Here I am…’  
And the loneliness fades. 
> 
> Some people think I'm something,   
Well, you gave me that, I know   
But I always feel like nothing   
When I'm in the dark alone 
> 
> You provide the soul, the spark that drives me on   
Makes me something more than flesh and bone 
> 
> At times like these   
Any fool can see   
Any fool can see   
Your love inside me…”  
—Marillion, “Neverland,” from Out of the Box

Richie started talking the second Roxanne and Eddie returned to the station. 

“I can’t believe you did that! How did you know—” 

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” she said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “You start to get a feel for… situations…I…I’m not fooling you at all, am I?”

Michelle shook her head. 

“So I’m just digging my own grave?”

Nod.

“Aw, jeez.” 

“You…you don’t seem mad. Am I missing something?”

Michelle shook her head. 

“What can I say? I knew what I was signing up for when I married you. Skunk’s gonna skunk. My wife’s gonna do something ridiculously impulsive. That’s life.” 

Roxanne put her hands on her hips and shifted back and forth. 

“I mean, I don’t…I’m not sure how I feel about your pessimism regarding my impulse control, but, uh, I’ll take what I can get. Now—” 

“Eddie!” 

It was Mike. He’d pushed his way through the doors, with Bev and Ben in tow. “There you are! We thought you left town!” 

Eddie, who was still wondering if the load Richie had pumped into his ass was ever going make a reappearance, turned, stiff-legged. He hadn’t even been thinking of Pennywise, or the others. Being in love, and feeling as if he and Richie were the only people in the universe, didn’t mesh well with the pervasive feelings of dread and insignificance aroused by the monster haunting Derry. Richie placed a warning hand on Eddie’s upper arm. 

“Mike,” he said. There was a warning in his voice. 

“It’s Bill,” Bev said. “He went after Pennywise by himself. Eddie, we have to go.” 

“No way,” Roxanne said. “You stay right here. Take me to this…house.”

“She’s right,” Richie said. “Eds, stay in the hotel. We’ll come back.”

“What! No!” Eddie exploded. “Richie—” 

“When I say ‘you,’ I mean the collective ‘you,’” Roxanne snarled. “I’ve got enough to worry about without chasing two untrained idiots. Leave this to the professionals.”

“Nuh-uh! We’ve done this before, you haven’t!” 

Eddie wasn’t exactly up in her face, but he wasn’t backing off either. 

“Eddie, enough. I’ll take her. You stay.” 

“What the hell are you talking about? We do this together, or we don’t do this at all!” 

“You shouldn’t be anywhere near this fight!” Richie screamed. His nerves were frayed, and he was terrified. The blood was roaring in his ears. He felt ill.

“Why not?” Eddie yelled. 

“You’re too important!”

“And you’re not?” 

“No! I—I don’t have any siblings, any friends, and I make my parents sick to my stomach! Nobody is going to miss me, okay? I just—you have to keep you safe, okay?” 

“No!” he shrieked. 

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY WON’T YOU LET ME DO THIS FOR YOU?” 

“YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME—” 

“E-NOUGH!” 

Roxanne’s voice cracked across the room, shivering through every cell of Richie and Eddie. Her speaking voice held only a hint of the power available to her. This was the voice that had gained her the title of “The Banshee” in her Tactical Assessment days; how you could hear her nearly a block away, how her voice could cut through metal and stone and flesh to reverberate into your ear, slicing through the crap. 

“Eddie. You stay here. You three. Take me to the entrance, then join him.” 

Eddie opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. When pushed this far, Roxanne’s decisions were made by fiat. She didn’t give him much time to argue, either. She just grabbed her cane and stumped off, following Richie. Eddie wanted to cry. He had no confidence that Richie wouldn’t just follow her and just get himself killed. 

“Okay,” Bev said cautiously. “What’s going on? I’ve never seen you guys fight like that.” 

“He is taking her, because he didn’t want me to, and if he gets hurt, then it’ll be because of me,” Eddie ground out.

“That makes sense,” Ben said.

Bev looked at him like he’d sprouted another head. “Huh?”

“You remember. When we were kids, it was like Richie was proud of putting himself in danger for Eddie. If he saw Bowers or Criss or any of them near Eddie, he’d start mouthing off, get the snot beaten out of him to distract them. Am I the only one that remembers this?” 

Bev opened her mouth to disagree, but the memories were filtering back, and then she saw Eddie’s face. He was completely gray, and the skin around his eyes was tight and bluish. 

“He was like your big brother,” Ben said. 

Eddie scowled. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up. That’s not funny.” 

“What’d I say—oh.” Ben turned, eyes widening. “Oh, boy. Richie? Really?”

Eddie looked up, anger and disgust mingling on his face. 

“No, I didn’t—all I meant is—I didn’t know—” 

“You didn’t know. You really didn’t know.” Eddie got up and started to pace. “I bought him ice cream. I stood for hours just watching him play Street Fighter. And you didn’t think—not for a second—that I loved him.” 

“We were just kids,” Bev said, dumbfounded. “We never thought—”

“No. No. I’m not doing this.” Eddie turned on his heel. “You can stay and hide if you want, but I’m leaving.”

“You don’t trust Richie?” 

“In general? I’d trust him with my life. Not to get killed? Not for a second.” Eddie grabbed his jacket. “I don’t trust his decision-making capability as far as I can throw him. I was there when he told Bowers to go blow his dad, remember? I…he needs my help. And if I live through this because he…it won’t be worth it.”

“What do you mean?” 

Eddie’s eyes lost focus and his face slackened. For a moment, he looked just like the little boy that he’d used to be, painfully serious, but full of a shy kind of hope. “I was asleep,” he said quietly. “It was like a nightmare, and I just woke up to a bright new morning. I am not going to sleep again. I’m leaving this shithole awake, or I’ll die. I will die, Beverly. That was what Roxanne was trying to tell me, right? Live free or die.”

“Eddie, you’re not making any sense.”

He laughed. 

“Maybe not. But that’s okay. It makes sense to me.” 

He left, and after a few moments, Ben and Beverly followed him. 

***  
“Down there,” Richie said. “The passages change. I’m sorry I can’t be of much help with directions, but I can try to guide you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Time for you to head back.” 

Roxanne was standing at the edge of the standpipe, looking down at the oily, inky darkness. Michelle stood beside her. Her shotgun was slung over her back, and the Magnum and Beretta were at her belt. She also had a rucksack strapped to her back, filled with whatever it was that Supervisory Special Agents brought to demon-slaying occasions. 

“I don’t think so,” Richie said. “I have to end this.”

Roxanne looked up, eyes narrowed. 

“That wasn’t the deal.” 

“Doesn’t matter. This…shadow won’t affect the rest of my life. You know, I’m so sick and tired of running, Roxanne, and I’m not going to do it anymore—” 

“So start by coming out to your parents,” she said. “This isn’t your job.”

“I was the one who took It down the first time. They helped, but I made the first move.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

“You don’t believe me.” 

“It’s not about belief.” 

They stood there for a few moments. “I’d do anything for him, Roxanne.”

“I know.”

“I’d die for him, right here, right now.”

“I know.” 

They stared at each other for a few moments. “Can I talk you out of this?”

“No,” Richie said. 

More silence.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You go first.” 

Richie grabbed the rope and started to descend. It wasn’t as easy as it had been when he was thirteen, and there were a couple of times where he thought he might slip and die, but eventually he made it. When he got to the bottom, he saw Michelle descending with Roxanne on her back. When she got down to the bottom, Roxanne slid off and scowled. 

“We don’t talk about that,” she said. 

Richie shrugged.

“Fine by me.”

“Not in a joking mood, huh?”

Richie sighed.

“No. Not really. I’m…I really, really, really don’t want to die here. How crazy is that? I’m risking my life now, when I finally have something to live for.”

“Dying for someone is easy, Richie,” Roxanne said. “Living for them is hard.”

Richie wheezed out a brief sob. It took even him by surprise. Roxanne’s face was startled, and a little uncomfortable. She wasn’t a therapist. She didn’t know what to do. 

Michelle took his hand and pulled him into a hug. He pressed his face into her bare shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin, smelling grapefruit, hazelnut, and patchouli. She held him tight, her right arm a comforting, solid bar against his back. A tentative touch on his shoulder told him that Roxanne had also moved close. Richie sobbed. 

“I want to spend time with him,” Richie wailed. “I want to marry him, Roxanne. Twenty-seven years…” 

Roxanne didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to say. If she had lost twenty-seven years with Michelle, she wouldn’t want to hear a word anyone else had to say. 

“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why risk it?”

Richie sniffed and dried his eyes. 

“I made a promise,” he answered, voice watery. 

“No promise is worth your life.” 

“This one is. Because of who I made it to.” 

“I can’t guarantee that any of us are going to make it out the other side of this.”

“I know.” 

“Hmm,” she said. “How very rare. To risk your life for your honor.” 

“I wouldn’t do it for just anyone,” Richie said. “Not like you.” 

“My psychoses aren’t at issue here,” Roxanne said, jerking her head at the entrance to the tunnel. “C’mon. Let’s get moving.” 

Michelle stepped forwards, wrists crossed, right hand gripping her revolver, the left hand holding her heavy flashlight. The hot, white beam of light cut through the gloom, and at her cue, they pressed forwards.


	22. Dry Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It always ends in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In all the time that I've known you   
You've been so edgy and nervous   
I never wanted to own you 
> 
> I was aware of the danger   
Of making a bid for your favours   
You're such a natural stranger   
I made excuses and ran 
> 
> You're an island   
But I can't leave you all out at sea   
You're so violent with your silence   
You're an island   
I can't sleep   
Won't you speak to me   
I'm on dry land   
Won't you help me please 
> 
> In all the time that I've known you   
There has been something between us   
I don't think it's my imagination 
> 
> I felt like I couldn't touch you   
But I had the feeling you'd love to   
Tell me the truth if you could do   
I made excuses and ran..."  
-Marillion, "Dry Land," from Holidays in Eden

When Eddie made it to the bottom of the well, he was ten, maybe fifteen minutes behind Richie. He didn’t wait for Ben and Beverly. There was no time. The tunnels were a rabbit’s warren, but he’d always had a good sense of direction. He could catch up to them. And if he couldn’t…well. Best not to think about it. 

Voices. He heard voices up ahead, and footsteps. His heart leapt into his mouth. 

“RICHIE!” he screamed. 

The footsteps stopped, but there was no answered. Eddie sped up. “Richie! Answer me, damn it!” 

Roxanne, a few meters away, spoke. “Aw, hell—” 

That was when the ceiling caved in. It wasn’t natural. It was way too perfect. It was like a sheet of rock descended, cutting Richie, Roxanne, and Michelle off from Eddie. 

“Shit! Are you there?” Eddie yelled. 

“We’re here. I told you to stay put!” Roxanne shouted. 

“Like hell!” Eddie yelled back. He kicked the wall. “Damn it!” 

“You’ll have to go another way. Just follow my voice!” She lowered her voice for a moment. “Richie, for the love of God, you have to pull it together.” 

“I’m going to the right,” Eddie said. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Hold your horses.” She said something inaudible, then cleared her throat, and began to sing. Her voice was husky, rich, and reverberant, dispelling some of the gloom of the cavern.   
“I drank sixteen doubles for the for the price of one   
Trying to find the courage to talk to the one  
I asked her for a dance  
Not a second glance  
My night had just begun  
Well, I drink to the father and the holy ghost  
I'm kneeling at the altar of my nightly post  
So I'll raise a glass, not the first nor last  
Come join me in this toast…” 

Eddie followed the passage, keeping one hand pressed against the wall, listening to Roxanne’s voice. The tunnel was so dark that it was easier for him to close his eyes, because when they were open, ghostly shapes swam across his field of vision. Afterimages popped behind his eyelids. Richie was just on the other side of that wall of rock, in the dark. The distance was unbearable after twenty-seven years of separation. 

Not to mention that he now knew just what closeness felt like. In the dark, he blushed. It was stupid to be thinking about sex now, in Pennywise’s catacombs, but he couldn’t help it. He felt like a teenager, hurrying into his bathroom to jerk off thinking about Richie’s lips, his hands, the glances he’d stolen in the locker room in the quarry. Coming through that, that fear…how could he be afraid of Pennywise now? He’d already—

“Hey! There’s a hole up there! I think I can squeeze through.”

“Are you sure about this? I mean…”

Eddie remembered the sheet of rock crashing down and shuddered. If it t’were be done, he thought, ’tis best it be done quickly. The crevasse was narrow enough that he had to breathe in to fit, and shuffle sideways. Halfway through, he started to get nervous, but then he felt someone take hold of his wrist and pull him through. He emerged from the other side with a scratched face and dirty jacket, but alive. Michelle had been pulling him through, one foot braced against the wall of the cave. She released him, dusting him off with hard, painful swats. 

“Unbelievable,” Roxanne snapped. She was standing against the wall, arms crossed. She uncrossed them to mess with the rubber caps covering the stumps of her fingers. “I fucking told you to stay back there.”

“Yeah, right. I—”

All of the sudden, Eddie realized that Richie wasn’t talking. He turned to look at him, and it wasn’t pretty. Richie looked like death warmed over. He was pale and hunched, like a man recovering from the flu. 

“Eddie, you can’t be here,” he said miserably. 

“The hell I can’t.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Zip it!” Roxanne hissed. “I hear something. Let’s go.” Roxanne started jogging, but was quickly halted by Michelle, who grabbed her ponytail and pushed her behind her. They pressed forwards, but not far forwards. They were confronted by three doors: 

NOT SCARY AT ALL

SCARY

VERY, VERY SCARY

“Hell,” Roxanne snarled. “Fine. Not scary at all is obviously a trap, to make us think we should pick very, very scary. So the answer is…scary.” She reached for the knob, but Eddie grabbed her hand. 

“Are you—”

“It’s gotta be.” 

The door opened, and a rush of hot air emerged. A young man stepped into the beam of Michelle’s flashlight. He was pale and slender, with bright blue eyes and short blond hair. Once he might’ve been boyishly handsome, but now he was haggard. He had two black eyes, a busted lip, and a ring of violet bruises around his neck. His arms were covered in track marks. 

“Roxanne,” Eddie said. He grabbed her arm. “What—”

She didn’t answer. Her face was a taut, wan mask. 

“Roxanne,” the kid said. “You failed me, Roxanne. I needed you, and you weren’t there for me. You promised you’d protect me. I am dead. Because. Of. You.”

Roxanne didn’t even move. She wasn’t breathing. She quivered, just a bit, but otherwise, she was like a statue. 

“Roxanne, don’t listen!” Eddie yelled. “It’s just trying to mess with you!” 

Roxanne made a little sound. Eddie thought it was a sob at first, but then it bubbled into a laugh. She slowly looked up, a pale smile playing around her lips. 

“Good to know,” she chuckled. “Good to know.”

“What are you—” 

Roxanne stepped towards the young man, looking him in the eye. “Two days ago, there was a shootout in the desert twenty-five miles west of Albuquerque. An automated M-16, mounted on a carriage. Eight dead white supremacists. An empty cage. A missing El Camino.” She laughed. “Walter White is dead, you lying piece of shit. I don’t know why, but if Jesse was dead, there would be a body. I. Didn’t. Kill. Anybody!” She kicked the apparition in the knee, and shoved him to the side. “Out of my way. Let’s go.” 

From the other side of the door came a faint yell. Eddie broke into a run, pulling Richie behind him, until Richie just stopped. 

“What are you doing? Bill and Mike—they could be in trouble!” 

“Eddie, you can’t—listen to me. What I saw—” 

“Richie, are you kidding me? We talked about this! It was just messing with you!” 

“I can’t take that risk. We—”

“Then why come here, Richie? If it’s too dangerous for me, then it’s too dangerous for you, too. Do you think I’m weak?”

“I don’t think you’re weak, Eddie!” 

“Then what is it? Because we said we’d do this together! What are you so afraid of?”

“Yeah, only a killer demon clown! What’s to fear?” 

“Richie!” 

Richie sighed and shook his head. He reached up and cupped Eddie’s cheek in one hand. 

“I can’t…listen to me. I tried to protect you back then. I have to…God. Please. I have to protect you. And if you go in there…and you get hurt…I’ll die. I will just die. I would rather die. Sweetheart.”

Eddie’s heart fluttered.

“You’ve gone through enough. You deserve to be safe.” 

Eddie laughed. 

“So do you. What you said about your parents…Richie, I could just kill them. How fucking could they not see how special you are? We do this together. All right?” 

“Hey!” Roxanne yelled. “Daylight’s burning!” 

They booked it through the hallway into the main chamber, and were confronted by Pennywise, but not the clown. Eddie had felt pretty good going into this boss battle, but he hadn’t been prepared for a massive spiderclown with a head bigger than he was. 

“Fuck me,” Roxanne breathed. “Chelle—” 

“On it,” Michelle grunted, her voice barely audible. She couldn’t sign, because her hands were occupied with her shotgun. 

“Wait,” Roxanne said. “We have to get closer. HEY!” she shouted. “Men of England, sons of glory, heroes of unwritten story! Offspring of the mighty mother, hopes of her and one another!” 

Mike rose from where he was lying on the ground. Bill turned. So did Pennywise. He started to crawl towards her. Roxanne held her ground. “Rise like lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number! Shake your chains to Earth like dew, which on sleep had fallen on you! YE ARE MANY, THEY ARE FEW!” 

Pennywise was close enough that Roxanne could reach up and touch It. It opened Its mouth, teeth lengthening. She took a breath.

“NOW!” 

She hit the ground like she’d been dropped from an airplane, and Pennywise flinched back, roaring in pain. A moment later, Eddie heard the crack of Michelle’s shotgun. “That hurt it!” Roxanne yelled. “Spread out! Stay low! Wait for—” One of Pennywise’s claws buried itself in the ground next to her arm. “Shit!” 

“HEY!” Richie screamed. He’d left Eddie’s side, drawing Pennywise away from him and Roxanne to the far side of the cavern. “You wanna play truth or dare?” 

Eddie ran over to Roxanne and helped her up. 

“I’m fine,” she hissed. “Keep moving.”

“Here’s a truth: you’re a sloppy bitch!” Richie bawled. “Yeah! You—” 

The beam of yellow light. Jesus Christ, Eddie thought. No. God no. 

His body acted before he did. He grabbed Roxanne’s Beretta and started running. She said something, grabbed at him, but he was too fast. He ran in front of Pennywise, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Then he realized the safety was on, pulled the hammer, and tried again. That time it worked, so he did it again. And again. Pennywise screamed and retreated, folding into Itself, evaporating, but he couldn’t be bothered to watch. Richie was on the ground. Without thinking, Eddie straddled him, grabbed the back of his head, and bent down to kiss him harshly. Mike/ Ben/Bev/Bill/Roxanne/Michelle said something, or moved, but there was nothing else in that moment but the feeling of Richie’s lips beginning to move against his. He pulled back, holding Richie’s head in his hands. 

“I did it, Rich!” he laughed. “Richie, I did it! I—” 

***

She was too late. She’d thought that the six shots down the gullet would slow down the monster, that it was down, but It was just waiting. She’d broken into a run when she saw it start to manifest behind Eddie, but she was too slow. Her abrupt fall had been nasty on her badly healed breaks, and she was limping badly. She was still six feet away when It stabbed Eddie. 

“MotherFUCKER!” Roxanne wailed. She threw herself forwards, grabbing one of Its legs. Trying to pull It back. It was stupid, sure, but she was pissed. What happened next was utterly foreseeable. It bent down and used one hand to slap her away. 

Roxanne hit the wall and slid to the ground. She immediately felt two of her ribs shatter along the old breaks, and one shoulder popped out of its socket with alarming alacrity. She rolled, landing with one arm underneath her, cheek pressed against the slimy rock of the cavern’s floor. Someone screamed in the distance, but it sounded very far away. Her body felt like it was trying to emancipate itself. She tried to regain control of her limbs, but her brain was powerless against the pain signals that were rampaging across her nerve endings. 

Kill me, she thought. A tear dripped off her nose and plinked into the smelly water without her permission. Just do it. Get it over with. 

A pair of small red Keds entered her field of vision. The owner of the shoes bent down and offered a hand to her. It was a small boy, maybe eleven or twelve, slightly built, with chocolate-colored hair and eyes, like they were made of the same stuff. He was wearing a worn yellow t-shirt and short red running shorts with rainbow decals on the side, the kind a female jogger might wear, and a beat-up black fanny pack. It didn’t seem off to her that there was a child in the tunnels with them. I mean, hell, there might as well be. This day was already so fucking weird. She made a wild grab at his hand, but her effort was short.

“It’s okay,” he coaxed. “Here.”

The boy took her by the forearm and helped her sit up. She looked around, the kid supporting her, holding her by one forearm as she leaned against him. Time was standing still in the cavern. There was Michelle, mid-stride, running towards that fucking spider, Beretta in hand. There was Ben, and Mike, and Beverly, and—

And there was Eddie, straddling Richie, looking down at the talon penetrating his chest like a stake through a vampire’s heart. 

“No,” she whimpered. “No, I don’t want to look anymore—” 

“You have to,” the boy said quietly. “The deadlights. Let me show you.”

“No, I can’t—who are you?” 

He gave her a small, sad, smile. 

“How long have you been here?” she whispered. 

“I never left. None of us did, really. This way.”

She followed him to Pennywise’s maw. One eye slowly tracked her as she crossed the cavern, but the demon seemed just as frozen as everyone else. 

“I can’t look,” she said, palms sweating. “You saw—Richie—”

“This is different. Take what you need. You can look, Roxanne. Make it show you the way out. You’ve done it before. You do it every day.” 

“What if I can’t?”

The boy shrugged hopelessly. 

“Then we’re all going to die.”

Well, that doesn’t leave me much of a choice, she thought as she stepped into the yellow beam. 

The little boy was right. She could control it, but like getting her daughter dressed for church, it was a constant struggle, and she had to fight not to lose ground. She wasn’t getting anything solid, just flickers, and she could feel Its impotent rage, the constant pushback, and then she remembered that It had just killed her friend, and she thought, fuck it. She remembered punching through the glass of that cupola, wrenching the window open as she heard him hurl his body against the door, and channeled that feeling. Break glass in case of emergency, right? Well, this was about as emergency as it got. She thrusts her fists against the posts and still insists she sees the ghosts. Men of England, Sons of Glory, Heroes of Unwritten Story. Shake your chains to Earth like dew. Ye are many, they are few. I know I must be going, but I swear it won’t be long. There isn’t that much ocean between Boston and St. John’s. 

When she punched through, the influx of sensory input was so overwhelming that she almost lost control. As the cavern faded from sight, Roxanne saw the path of her life stretch out before her. It was like a river running towards the sea that was eternity, with many branches and tributaries. A million futures flashed before her eyes. She saw herself holding a child with her daughter’s brilliant blue eyes as Michelle smiled proudly. She saw herself being in police custody with a revolver in an evidence bag and a crime scene photograph of Sonia Kaspbrak’s bullet-riddled corpse laid out in front of her. She saw herself fucking her wife with a strap-on while her gentle hands cupped her breasts. She saw herself bleeding out under a Metrobus. She saw herself waking up in a puddle of piss only to be gently cleaned up and re-diapered by a patient and kindly Michelle/Marian/Booker/Eddie. She saw guest-lectures at Hopkins and children’s hearts starting to beat again under her latex-gloved hands. She saw those same hands bare and bloodstained as she held in the life’s blood of stranger stabbed on a streetcorner. She felt the life run out of her as she watched a newscaster announce an active shooter at her son’s favorite bar. She saw herself making love and laughing and writing and painting and healing. She saw herself drinking herself into a stupor and slitting her own wrists and committing murder and vomiting in mall restrooms. 

All of this happened within the span of three or four seconds. She saw all the thing she wanted to do with her life, all the mistakes she wanted to have a chance to make. She knew that her time might be short. It might be full of pain and suffering. It might be ugly. But she wanted it, nonetheless. As quickly as it had appeared, it faded, but before her vision turned to darkness, Roxanne saw what the boy had been trying to show her, what It had been trying to hide. Her leather bag. A bottle of gin. Her knife.

“I finally get it,” she said, looking down at him. “It’s you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Eddie looked a bit sheepish. “It’s not too late.”

“Bullshit it’s not!” 

They turned to see another kid walking across the room. This kid, however, was easy for Roxanne to recognize. It was her. She was fifteen years old, wearing her blue wool skirt and white blouse, hair tied back with a blue ribbon. Her arms were crossed.

“A low percentage play,” she said. “You know it. I know it. We all know it.”

Little Eddie’s face fell. He turned his face into Roxanne’s skirt, wrapping his arms around her. Looking for comfort.

“One in a million,” the other Roxanne continued. “You’re smart. If you’re wrong, then we all die. You have kids.”

A small hand slipped into Roxanne’s. 

“She’s right,” Little Eddie said. “She’s right, but I don’t want to die here.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “There was so much…for me. What did you see? Was there more? I wanted…I saw it. More than this. I want to have it.” 

“I know,” Roxanne whispered. Ignoring not-Roxanne, she got down on her knees in front of the boy, taking his hands in hers. “Tell me. What do you miss most about being alive? I mean, really alive. Before you forgot what it felt like.”

Little Eddie sniffled.

“I miss the sound of Richie singing from outside my bedroom window, off-key enough that I knew it was on purpose, to try to make me laugh. I miss the way that Stan would always tag along with us, even if he did lecture us all the way home for being stupid and immature. I miss going to the library, the feeling of clothes just out of the dryer, the quarry. I miss ice cream.”

Roxanne was crying, but she smiled through her tears, putting a hand to Little Eddie’s cheek. 

“I know. I know. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there then. I wish I could’ve protected you.”

Whatever dreamlike state they were in was starting to break down. 

“Well?” Not-Roxanne asked. Her voice was fuzzy, like a radio caught between stations. “What are you going to do?”

“My fucking job,” Roxanne whispered under her breath, and closed her eyes. 

When she opened them, she was back on the floor. She felt the pain, heard the scream, but this time she was ready. Mastering the pain, she pushed herself off the floor and stumbled across the cavern. 

“Richie!” she screamed. 

Richie wasn’t moving. His eyes were open. He was pale and shaking. Roxanne understood, but she also understood that there was no time. She kicked him in the ribs. “Get up. Get. Up. GET UP!” 

He sat up slowly, still silent, shaking, shell-shocked. 

“Help me with this,” she gasped, pointing at her shoulder. “Quick.” All she needed him to do was hold her arm still while she shoved the joint back into place. It was painful, but quick. “My bag. Over there. Hurry, damn you! Chelle!” she screamed. Chelle whipped around to look at her, eyes wide and relieved. “Kill that damn thing!” Michelle nodded, and Roxanne turned back around just in time to catch her bag. 

From inside the bag, she pulled gauze, medical tape, a syringe, plastic tubing, a butterfly needle, and a Bowie knife. The first thing she did was slide the butterfly needle into her own arm, connect it to the tubing, and insert it into Eddie’s carotid artery. As soon as her O neg. was flowing into his veins, she pulled out the knife, readied it, and—

“What are you doing?” Richie shrieked, and tried to grab her. She had to knee him in the balls to fend him off, knocking him sideways onto the cavern floor. Behind her, the Losers were doing something—killing It, by the sound of it—music to her ears, but she couldn’t look away. 

“Someone, keep him off of me!” 

Michelle, who had weakened It substantially with a non-standard issue frag grenade down the gullet (which Roxanne had missed, much to both of their chagrin) ran in and stiff-armed Richie, planting him in the inch of gray water covering the floor like a daisy. Roxanne readied the knife again, shutting out the commotion around her, and cracked open Eddie’s ribcage with one smooth motion. She spread the ribs and then, after a quick breath, plunged a hand into his thorax. 

His left lung was swiss cheese. It would have to be removed the moment they got to the hospital. For now, however, she had to content herself with tying off as many arteries as she could. When she’d stopped as much blood loss as she could, she wrapped her hand around the heart and started to squeeze. 

“Commencing internal cardiac massage!” she yelled. “Someone’s car better be fucking running!” 

“Roxanne, we have to go!” someone yelled. “He’s dead, you can’t help him! This place is coming down!” 

It was. Chunks of rock were tumbling from the ceiling. The whole cavern was shuddering, and cracks were appearing in the walls as what had once been smooth rock became crumbly and friable. Roxanne wiped sweat from her brow with her free hand and resumed her efforts to staunch the bleeding. 

“Help me!” she yelled. Michelle let go of Richie and put two hands under Eddie’s armpits. Mike, after a brief hesitation, ran in and grabbed his ankles. “Let’s go!”

They made it out, but it was a near thing. They couldn’t move very fast without compromising Roxanne’s ability to beat Eddie’s heart, and stopping wasn’t an option. The back of Michelle’s Honda, which had just been de-vomitified the other day, was quickly transformed into a trauma bay. “Richie!” Roxanne howled. “Get in here!”

“What can I—”

“Get in. Now. Talk to him. Keep him here. You understand me?”

“I can’t—what about?”

Michelle peeled out of the parking lot. They were seven minutes away from the nearest hospital. They had maybe five. 

“Were you ever in a play?”

“Yeah, Romeo and Juliet, in high school—” 

“I don’t care. Read your lines. For God’s sake, I need you to keep him awake!”

“I can’t think of—”

“TALK! NOW!” 

Roxanne’s sudden bark made Richie jump, and made Eddie’s eyes flicker open momentarily. 

“Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life; whose misadventured piteous overthrows doth with death bury their parents’ strife—” 

“Next!”

“Uh, many a morning hath he been seen there, with tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew, adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs. But all so soon as the all-cheering sun should in the furthest east begin to draw the shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, away from light steals home my heavy son and private in his chamber pens himself, shuts up his windows, locks daylight out, and makes for himself an artificial night. Black and portentous this humor must prove, unless wise counsel should the cause remove. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.”

Richie was terrified that it wasn’t working, until Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, and he moaned. Richie put a hand on his forehead, wiping away cold sweat, mud, and blood. 

“It hurts,” he whimpered. “Richie…”

“Shh,” Richie whispered. “Don’t try to talk. You know what I thought when I first saw you?”

Eddie didn’t answer, but his eyes flicked over to Richie, chest rising and falling steadily. 

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night as a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear— Beauty too rich for use, for Earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows as yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand and, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.” 

A faint smile found Eddie’s lips. He coughed a little, then closed his eyes. “No, no, baby, eyes open. Look at me, Eds, please. Please.” After a moment, with obvious effort, Eddie opened his eyes again. Roxanne was on the phone with the hospital, calling for a trauma team in place and an OR. 

“But soft!” Richie crowed, stroking Eddie’s pale cheek. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and fair Eddie is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady. O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold. ’Tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night.” 

“Ay, me,” Eddie whispered, a smile hovering around his lips.

“He speaks! O, speak again, bright angel!” 

“O, I am fortune’s fool,” Eddie breathed. Richie took one of his hands and pressed it to his lips. 

“Let me be ta’en; let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon gray is not the morning’s eye; ’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow. Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come death and welcome, Eddie wills it so. How is ’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.”

They arrived. Roxanne threw open the door. 

“Chelle, get the crash team here.” 

Michelle nodded. A few seconds later, a doctor, accompanied by three nurses, ran up with a gurney. “Listen to me! ICM, five minutes. I need you to be ready when I remove my hand.”

The doctor nodded.

“I SAID, I NEED YOU TO BE READY. CAN I HEAR ‘HEARD?’” 

“Heard!” the doctor shouted. Roxanne removed her hands, holding them up like she was surrendering. The ER doc’s hands replaced hers and they whisked him away. Richie whimpered. Roxanne swung her legs out of the car and stepped down. She hissed in pain as her right foot hit the ground.

“Are you—” Richie asked numbly. She waved him away. Michelle grabbed her and supported her into the hospital. Richie, stunned and blind, followed.


	23. Bitter Suite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A spider wanders aimlessly within the warmth of a shadow   
Not the regal creature of border caves   
But the poor, misguided, directionless familiar   
Of some obscure Scottish poet 
> 
> The mist crawls from the canal   
Like some primordial phantom of romance   
To curl, under a cascade of neon pollen   
While I sit tied to the phone like an expectant father   
Your carnation will rot in a vase."  
\- "Bitter Suite," Marillion, from Misplaced Childhood

Roxanne fell down onto one of the chairs in the E.R. waiting room. 

“My phone,” she gasped. “Chelle…”

“You’re hurt,” Michelle signed. 

“Forget it. Phone?” 

Michelle gave up and passed her the cell. Roxanne unlocked it with a shaking finger and dialed. “Pick up, pick up. Rita! It’s Roxanne. I need a helicopter in Derry, Maine YESTERDAY. You hear me? I’ve got a patient—cardiothoracic penetration, severe lung damage—he’s in the OR now, but they’re not equipped—No! I’ll pay!” She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face into her hands. “Okay. All right. For the love of God, hurry.” 

“Sweetheart,” Michelle signed. “You’re hurt.” 

Roxanne hissed in pain. 

“My ankle,” she groaned. “It’s not—oh God—it’s unsalvageable. I can feel—aah—” She reached down, rubbing her calf. 

Richie hovered over her. 

“Can I help—take your boot off, maybe—”

“I wouldn’t,” she ground out. “’S the only thing holding my ankle together. Get me my bag.” 

Richie complied, hands shaking. 

“Roxanne—” 

She rummaged around and pulled out a bottle of pills. She shook one out, popped it in her mouth, and started to chew. 

“Roxanne,” Richie whimpered. “Is he going to be—” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Richie, I did my best. I swear to God, I did what I could.” 

“They were just going to leave him there,” Richie whispered. 

“Richie, don’t.”

“They would’ve left him to DIE!” he shouted. Ben, Bill, Beverly, and Mike turned around. 

“Richie, what are you talking about?” Bev asked. 

“You, all of you, would’ve left him to ROT. Underneath that…house he hated so much. You were all so concerned with saving your own skins that you were going to abandon Eddie.” 

“That place was coming down—” Bill started.

“NO! He was there because of YOU! This was your fight, not his! And when he got hurt, you couldn’t care less! How dare you! How. Dare. You.” He fell silent, chest heaving. 

“Richie, that’s not fair!” 

“I don’t care, all right? I don’t give a shit! Just get out.” 

“Rich—” 

“LEAVE!” 

Richie paced as they trickled out the door. Roxanne didn’t respond. She was leaning backwards, face pale and drawn. 

“You don’t think I should’ve done that,” Richie growled. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Roxanne replied. 

“There’s no defending it.”

“I agree.”

“You—you’re a stranger. You stayed. You risked your life. They didn’t do a goddamn thing.”

“I’m also a doctor. I’ve trained for situations like that.” 

“So what? You think they did the right thing?”

“No.” She grimaced and struggled to sit up straight. “I think they were cowards. Selfish. But plenty of people are cowards. They failed to show extraordinary bravery, compassion, selflessness. In a dangerous situation, you can’t trust them to do the right thing. So keep it in mind, and forgive them.”

“Forgive them? Hell no!” 

“At the risk of quoting Dr. Phil, forgiveness isn’t about saying that they were right. It’s about saying it’s not worth the energy. You’re going to have to decide if you want to hate them more than you want to be there for Eddie.”

“How could you even ask me that?” 

“It’s a rhetorical question, asked for effect. I know what you feel.” 

They were interrupted by a heavy whup-whup-whup coming from above. “Ah,” Roxanne said. “She’s here.” Roxanne swooned, face bathed in sweat, and gasped. “Oh, shit. That hydrocodone…it’s not doing the job…Jesus…”

A woman burst through the doors. She was wearing blue scrubs tucked into a pair of red cowboy boots. She had a blonde crew cut and pink lip gloss. 

“Roxanne?” 

“Rita,” Roxanne gasped. 

“Team’s on the roof. Are we ready?”

“They’re in there. Go, go, go. I don’t trust these fucks.” 

“I can’t burst into someone else’s OR, Roxanne—” 

“Please,” Roxanne said. “I am asking.”

For an interminable second, they stared at each other. Rita sighed.

“Fine. Fine. Fine. Where?”

Roxanne pointed vaguely in the direction they’d taken Eddie. 

“I’d—I’d do it myself, but my hands…” 

Rita nodded. 

“Okay. All right. Sit tight.” 

For eight hours, Michelle, Roxanne, and Richie sat together. Roxanne swam in and out of consciousness. The last time she’d been in this much pain had been when she’d hit the pavement in Baltimore, but that didn’t seem very important right now. She’d felt so damn good, just yesterday, like she was back on top of her game, proving she could roll widdit, baby. Like she’d done something good, made friends. Sure, it was selfish. She’d seen so much of herself in them, those two people on the borders of life, waiting to exist again. She wanted to help breathe some life back into them, break their hearts of stone and see if she could coax them into a happy ending. And if she could do that for them, maybe she could do it for herself, bring herself back from this walking slumber she’d found herself in. But here she was, on the verge of losing someone she had sworn to protect, someone who had become a friend. Jesse was alive, yes, but his future was so uncertain. The cops would be blanketing Albuquerque now, searching for him. Walter was dead, and someone had to pay. Coming off that, the promise of a simple B story, a walk-on part in a sweet rom-com, had been powerfully alluring. But she hadn’t forseen this. 

She couldn’t imagine how Richie was feeling. He was gray and sweaty, shaking like a leaf. He was giving off some kind of crazy scent, like a terrified animal. Michelle was trying to comfort them both, but there was only so much she could do. They were sequestered in their griefs. 

Rita emerged after an eternity. Roxanne’s heart leapt into her heart. Dr. Rita Tesperian was smudged with blood. Eddie’s blood. 

“He’s alive,” she said. “He’s stable.” 

She opened her mouth to say more, but she was interrupted by the sound of Richie’s head cracking against the linoleum. He’d fainted dead away. 

“Give it to me straight,” Roxanne said. 

Rita glanced at her leg. 

“If I do, will you let me take a look at that?” 

“After we get to Dartmouth. What happened?”

Rita sighed.

“You saved his life with the ICM. I’m concerned about an infection, but we’ll keep him on antibiotics for a while. That’s not what concerns me.” 

Roxanne’s face was impassive, but Michelle knew her too well. Very much she fears, she thought. Very much she fears some ill uncertain thing. “The flow of blood was interrupted for a long time. I managed to perform a bypass and repair the major arteries, but when the brain is deprived of oxygen, we don’t know—” 

“Don’t lecture me,” Roxanne ground out. “I taught you that speech.”

“Fine. I don’t know how much of his brain is still alive. Right now, he’s comatose. He might never wake up. He might make a full recovery. It’s impossible to—”

“Guess.”

“All right, fine. You said he was talking in the car ride over. Given that, it’s likely that his brain was without oxygen for six, maybe seven minutes. If you held a gun to my head, I’d say it’s likely that he’ll slowly progress to a PVS.” 

PVS. Persistent vegetative state. 

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.”

Roxanne’s own voice floated back to her. “There will come a time when all of this is over. Something else will grow and take its place…”

“Roxanne. Talk to me.” 

Roxanne opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t even breathe. She tried to move, but it was like she was underwater. This was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. She was frozen.

Inch by inch, one hand, flopping and inching like a beached carp, made its way down her leg. With a herculean effort, she wrapped her fingers around her broken ankle—and squeezed. The boiling pain that raved its way up her leg to her armpit, threatening her consciousness, and, as it seemed for a moment, her sanity, was a welcome change. It broke up the log jam and allowed her to spit out:

“I woke up. Didn’t I?”

Rita Tesperian, who had been one of Roxanne’s students, had been the one to put her back together after the fall. There had been bone marrow in her blood stream, and she had had to fish shards of bone from canyons and ground-beef patties of pulped flesh and skewer them back together with titanium pins, but she had somehow managed to put the ragdoll back together. Roxanne had been hoping that she would have similar luck. She sniffed, and looked down at Richie, hoping that he would stay asleep for as long as possible. “God. How am I supposed to explain this—?”

Rita sighed. 

“Do it later. We need to get in the helicopter. I’ll know more once I can get some second opinions.” 

“Give me ten minutes,” she said. “I need to do something first.” 

***  
When Michelle found the rest of the Losers, they were preparing to leave. She jogged up to them, shaking her head in disbelief. She motioned at them to come back, pointing to the hospital.

“You heard Richie,” Bill said bitterly. “He doesn’t want us there. We’re all just selfish cowards. Didn’t you hear?”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Michelle hissed. They started at the sound of her voice: low, harsh, and pained. She pressed a hand to her throat, winced, and continued. “Dartmouth-Hitchcock. Be there.” 

She turned and jogged back.


	24. The Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There's a hot hard hurt  
Burning under her skin  
And it pricks her like thorns  
And it's needles and pins  
And it twists in her body  
And I know what it is 
> 
> And I'm paying in pain  
But it's the cost of the high  
'Till the weight of the secret  
And the weight of the lie  
Makes my heart want to burst  
Feel the ache as time goes by  
Getting better and worse  
Getting better and worse 
> 
> And there's a screw that I tighten  
As I dream of the kiss  
And it twists and it cuts me  
And you know what it is?  
It's a fragment of love  
From a splintering heart  
And it tears her apart  
But not as much as this 
> 
> So you save up your tears  
For the moments alone  
'Till the splinters you gather  
Leave you glass-hard and numb  
And the same sun is shining  
On the old and the young  
On the saints and the sinners  
On the weak and the strong
> 
> And there's a burning and freezing  
And a cross for a kiss…”  
\- Marillion, “Splintering Heart,” from Holidays in Eden

They amputated the lower third of Roxanne’s right leg as soon as she allowed them. They should’ve done it two years ago, after the fall, but better late than never. It didn’t take long, and they tossed her into Recovery pretty fast. Only a few of them had worked with her, but word spread fast. Chief among those words were these two: terrible patient. It was true. They say the best doctors are the worst patients, and Roxanne was a very good doctor. She just barely acceded to their prescription of a Duragesic patch and let them give her an epidural—the better to get out of bed and back into the waiting room. She couldn’t move below the chest, but she could push a wheelchair, and nothing the surgeon could say would convince her to say in bed. As she emerged from the room, wedging the door open with the wheelchair, Michelle looked up. The sight of Roxanne, up and about three hours after surgery, shocked words out of her:

“Oh, fuck!” 

Richie jumped, startled awake. Roxanne didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but it couldn’t have been long. He was sprouting a serious five o’clock shadow, and you could sleep a family in the bags under his eyes. Looking at him made Roxanne feel mildly ill. Not just because she could feel his pain (she could), but because she knew that this was how Michelle had felt, along with her father, grandmother, and kids, all those times she’d would up under the knife because of stupid, risky decisions. 

“Roxanne,” he rasped. “Shouldn’t you be…resting?” 

“I’m fine. If I exercise it, keep the bloodflow up, it lessens my chance of chronic pain. I ain’t planning on running a marathon.” 

“Roxanne?” 

It was Doctor Tesperian. She’d changed scrubs, and she’d washed her face. “I’ve got some questions for you and Agent Johnson. Do you mind?” 

Roxanne sighed. 

“Fine. Richie, we’ll be right back.” 

***

Richie watched Michelle roll Roxanne away, and resisted the urge to chase them down and ask them to explain everything, line by line, test result by test result. The doctors couldn’t tell him much—he was alive, that was all. 

Could I see him? 

No. 

When can I see him? 

Not sure. 

Can you tell me anything? 

Are you family? 

Well…

Then no. 

He couldn’t explain to them who Eddie was to him, that he needed to be with him, that every minute he had to go without seeing Eddie and making sure he was all right had him withering on the vine, like a plant kept in the dark. It had looked so awful, down in that tunnel. Richie had no idea how he had survived. The wound had looked so deep, so horribly placed, that part of him was terrified that when they did send him into that room, it would be empty, and he’d turn to see the nurses, doctors, janitors, all wearing Pennywise’s face, and they’d raise their arms and scream:

“APRIL FOOLS! YOUR BOYFRIEND’S DEAD, AND YOUR FRIENDS HELPED KILL HIM!” 

The prospect was almost too horrible to contemplate. That it all might have been some sick joke, Pennywise letting him get a taste of something different, something beautiful, and to have it all snatched away…to have Eddie pay for his carelessness…

“Hey! Hello! We’re looking for Roxanne Little?” 

Richie got up and turned around. 

“You’re looking for…she’s gone…” 

The woman who had spoken turned around, eyes wide. The older man with her gasped and put his hands to his face. 

“Gone?”

“Oh, shit! No, no—she’s fine, she’s out, she’s just—not here,” Richie corrected hurriedly. “Roxanne’s fine. I saw her just a minute ago.”

The older man sighed in relief. He had shoulder-length silver hair and a soul patch. His little round glasses were propped up by his big, beaklike nose. The woman beside him was much younger, maybe in her twenties. When she turned fully to face Richie, he gasped. “You look just like her,” he whispered.

She did. The woman, who must have been Roxanne’s daughter, had a stylishly ragged Joan-of-Arc bob and a smooth, unscarred face, and she was a little shorter and curvier, but other than that, she was her mom’s carbon-copy. She was wearing a wrinkled blue linen skirt, gray ankle boots, and a soft white t-shirt. Both she and the old man looked exhausted. 

“Do you…know her?” she asked. “You called her Roxanne. Everyone calls her Doctor Little.” 

“We’re…friends. I…she saved my friend’s life.” 

“Oh.” The young woman considered for a second, then stretched out her hand. “I’m Marian. Marian Magdalene Little. My parents have a funny sense of humor. This is my grandpa Allen.” 

Richie shook her hand, and then shook Allen’s hand. He was numb, but it was odd to see Roxanne’s daughter, her father, standing in front of him. He guessed he’d assumed she’d sprung fully formed out of a test tube or psychology textbook. 

“How’s my daughter?” Allen asked. 

“She’s—well—” 

“Dad? Marian? What the hell are you doing here?” 

Roxanne emerged from the supply closet, pushed by Michelle. 

“Rosie!” 

“Mom!” 

Roxanne spluttered. 

“Michelle, did you—what—of course you did. Why—”

“You’re missing your fucking leg!” Allen shrieked. 

“No. Okay. Nonononononono. This is good, actually. I’ve been thinking of—you know, most of my complex regional pain was in that ankle, okay? So if they cut it off—” 

“Aw, jeez, Mom,” Marian groaned. “What did you do now?” 

“It’s not as—wait. Where’s Booker?” 

“He’s with Nana, at the hotel.”

“You brought Nana? Are you for real?” 

“Am I for real?” Marian yelled. “Her granddaughter just got her fucking leg cut off! You don’t think she might want to hear that?” 

“You can’t just drag a ninety year old Holocaust survivor coast to coast—” 

“All right, enough!” Richie shouted. “Roxanne, what’s going on?”

Roxanne sighed. 

“Look, Richie, it’s not that simple. It’s really hard to predict what’s going to happen when bloodflow to the brain is interrupted. He could wake up in an hour, or a week, or…”

“Or never. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” 

“It’s a possibility.” 

“And what…what if that happens? What if there’s some sort of…brain damage, and he can’t take care of himself? Are you going to ship him back to his wife, so she can keep poisoning him?”

Roxanne scowled. “I’ll never let that happen. You know that. But Richie, are you…” She shifted in her chair, rubbing her temples. “Are you—and I’m not saying that this will definitely happen—are you ready—willing—able—to spend the rest of your life taking care of someone who can’t take care of himself? Who needs care around the clock? Can you—” 

Richie burst into tears. He couldn’t help it. He was tired, and scared, and guilt-ridden, and he just wanted to see Eddie. 

Again, it wasn’t Roxanne that comforted him. His vulnerability disturbed her, and he was sure that it was because she was seeing the other side of her injuries and close calls, the side that had been going on whole she was too doped up or under anesthetic to notice. But Michelle had. Hell, she had been Richie, wondering how much of the person she loved would be left to her once the doors were opened and all verdicts were in. She wrapped her arms around him and let him cry into the neck of her dirty, muddy, bloody jacket. He couldn’t read her hands, but her face told him everything he needed to know. Her heart broke in sympathy with his, along old fault lines that had never fully healed. 

“Shh,” she whispered, in that broken-glass rasp full of audible pain. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” 

Richie couldn’t stop. He felt like there was a leak somewhere inside of him, and the drip-drip-drip of saltwater would continue until someone soldered it shut. For twenty-seven years, he hadn’t felt anything like this. For twenty-seven years he’d felt nothing at all. He might have know that there would be a price to bay for the, what? Three days of happiness? He couldn’t—

“All right, I can hear you pitying yourself, and you need to stop. That’s not helpful,” Roxanne said. Richie sniffed and pulled back.

“Mom!” 

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me, I know what I’m talking about. Listen. I know you’re afraid. That’s natural. So let it in. Five seconds. No more, no less. Then you have to get down to business—get down to being the person he needs. Do you understand me?”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“You never know if you can do something until it’s in your rearview mirror.”

Richie pressed the heels of his hands into his eyeballs until bright spots burst across his eyelids, groaned, and shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. 

“Okay. All right. This was…helpful. I think. Can I see him?” 

Roxanne nodded at Dr. Tesperian, who sighed. 

“Sure. Fine.”

“Take Marian,” Roxanne advised. “You shouldn’t be alone, and I…I think I need to lie down. Or maybe some Oxy. Dad—”

“I’m right here,” Allen whispered. 

“No, I was gonna suggest that you get a hotel or something, maybe go hang out with Booker—”

“I’m staying right here.”

“Michelle,” Richie said. He wanted to go see Eddie, needed to go see him, but it didn’t feel right, dropping them like a hot Pop-Tart onto a cold kitchen floor. He cared about them, obviously, but not like he loved Eddie, but somehow the line between that mutual understanding and its overt acknowledgement was one that he felt shouldn’t be crossed. “Roxanne—” 

“Go,” she said. “I don’t want you hangin’ around, breathin’ down my neck. Get lost. Hit the bricks. Tell your story walkin’.” 

“Thanks,” Richie sighed. “Be well, Rosie.”

“I’ll just be down the hall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOw this is kind of inching along right now because I just got done with final exams, but on the bright side, I have five weeks of break (well, working on my prospectus, but STILL) so I should be much more with it in terms of updating and moving the story along at a more customary pace for me.  
Sidenote: Though I have spent a fair amount of time in hospitals, I'm not a doctor. BUT I'm guessing that if and when they really amputate your leg, they'll keep you in bed for a bit longer than three hours, no matter how unpleasant you are. If you have major surgery, don't take medical advice from my OC (one of whose primary distinguishing traits is a reckless disregard for her own safety coupled with an adrenaline-junkie disposition). Not that I think that you would.


	25. Darkling I Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “So if you ever decide that you have to escape   
And travel the world, and you can't find a place   
Well, you could wind up believing   
That paradise is nothing more than a feeling   
That goes on in your mind   
So if ever find out what that is   
There's something you could do 
> 
> 'Cause if I ever hold that golden dream again   
I want to tell you   
I'm gonna name it after you…”  
\--Marillion, “After Me,” from Mirrors

Roxanne’s voice floated to Eddie, wave by wave, as he floated in a gray haze. He didn’t know where he was, if he was alive or dead. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t hear anything, except for the cadences of her voice.

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains   
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,   
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains   
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:   
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,  
But being too happy in thine happiness,—   
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,   
In some melodious plot   
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,   
Singest of summer in full-throated ease…”

Eddie opened his eyes, and momentarily he could see shadows, shapes fading in and out of focus, but the effort exhausted him, and he had to close his eyes again, and lost the thread of her voice for a moment.

“That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,   
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget   
What thou among the leaves hast never known,   
The weariness, the fever, and the fret   
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;   
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,   
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;   
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow   
And leaden-eyed despairs,   
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,   
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.”

He wanted to tell her to read something else, to stop frightening him, when he still wasn’t sure if Richie was alive or dead, but he couldn’t move his mouth or open his eyes. He didn’t want to leave the world unseen, but he felt so damn weak that he was in danger of fading away, and she wasn’t helping. 

“Away! away! for I will fly to thee,   
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,   
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,   
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:   
Already with thee! tender is the night,   
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,   
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;   
But here there is no light,   
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown   
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,   
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,   
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet   
Wherewith the seasonable month endows   
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;   
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;   
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;   
And mid-May's eldest child,   
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,   
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.”

Eddie was weeping now, silently, passively, but weeping nonetheless. He remembered nights with Richie, walking home through the dark. It was seeming more and more likely   
that he was dying, bleeding to death on the floor of that cavern. Suddenly, the world in his memories seemed unbearably beautiful. 

“Eddie,” she said. “It’s time to get movin’.” 

Eddie woke up, moment by moment. The world faded from black to gray to saturated colors. Sunlight was beaming down, catching on the curve of a wine glass. Eddie looked up to see Roxanne sitting on a marble railing looking out over a river. One leg was propped up, and the other was swinging free off the ledge. The Eiffel Tower emerged from the skyline behind her. 

Paris? Eddie thought.

“There you are. Thought you’d never wake up.”

Eddie went to stand up, and when he looked down, he was wearing his shorts. He was seventeen when he wore those for the last time. 

“This isn’t real, is it?” he asked.

“Of course it ain’t,” Roxanne answered. She jumped down, adjusting her dress. When Eddie looked closely at her hand, he noticed that she had all of her fingers.

“Am I dead?” 

“Hmm. Yes and no. Both and. It’s hard to describe, but we’re on a threshold. A nexus. Millions upon millions timelines converge here. In this moment, you’re Schrodinger’s cat—well, you both are and aren’t. You’re here until you decide whether or not you’re going to eat the poison.” She spread her arms. “Darkling I listen; and, for many a time   
I have been half in love with easeful Death,   
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,   
To take into the air my quiet breath;   
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,   
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,   
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad   
In such an ecstasy!   
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—   
To thy high requiem become a sod.” 

It was true. Before Derry, for many a time he had been half in love with an easeful Death. Before returning, it would have been an easy decision, to stay—where? This ever-sunlit dream city? But now…he remembered the feeling of Richie moving inside him, prying him apart, fingers digging into his hips, talking about MARRYING him, for the love of God, and this weak imitation of happiness seemed fragile. Pathetic. Supremely unsatisfying. Speaking of Richie…

“Why aren’t you Richie? If you’re taking the form of someone I care about, then shouldn’t you be…him?”

Roxanne—well, Not-Roxanne—laughed. 

“That would be putting a thumb on the scale, wouldn’t it? Reminding you what you’re leaving behind. At Nexus G-39243, we pride ourselves on being fair and balanced. Anyhow, love and respect are radically different emotions.” She gestured at the Eiffel Tower. “C’est vraiment joli, non? Well, at least I think so.”

“I’ve never even left the East coast.”

“Well, I guess some things are best left in dreams.”

“I was saving it,” Eddie said. “You’re here to get me to, what? Give up the ghost? Cross to the other side?”

Not-Roxanne shook her head.

“You have to understand, not everyone gets this sort of courtesy call. You showed great valor. So they sent me to explain the situation to you. Simply put, you can go back, or you can stay here.” 

“Here? You mean…Paris?”

“It could be anywhere. The world as you want to see it. At least, until it’s time for you to move on.”

“To where?” Eddie asked. 

Not-Roxanne shook her head. Her face rippled, and for a moment, she looked like an old TV stuck between channels. Eddie recoiled, disturbed.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been. When you decide to stay here, you never get to see it. I get glimpses sometimes, like looking out the window of a plane, but I…that door is shut. It reminds me of when I was little, when the world was my kingdom, but I don’t know why.”

“You’re a ghost,” Eddie said, numb.

“Sort of. I’m a Death. A psychopomp. I guide souls. When my time came, I was…afraid. So they offered me this.” She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, the table with the cigarettes, the croissant, and the wine glass. “But I have to work. God, do I have to work. I have to be everywhere at once. There’s a war on, you know? Whoever said that War was Death’s best friend was a goddamn liar. I’ve been running myself ragged.”

“H-how old are you?”

“Very. I was ferrying souls when your Messiah was still shitting the manger. It’s been a long time.” 

Eddie desperately wanted more answers, but he was disturbed by how Not-Roxanne seemed to be getting fuzzy at the edges, like a leper unraveling. 

“Who made this deal with you?”

“Well, it was…oh, it must’ve been…it was Her, wasn’t it? A very long time, then.”

“Her, who?”

“Her. God, of course. Well, not God in the traditional sense. But God nonetheless. Do you know what we are, Eddie Kaspbrak?”

“Atoms, right?” 

“Yes. Biology underlaid by chemistry underlaid by physics underlaid by mathematics. The universe is a mathematical expression, Eddie. She is the lurking variable that makes it equal to itself. She used to be a bit livelier, but She’s withdrawn over the years. Time has made her strange. The integrity of the equation is slowly unraveling, and all of us with her.”

“What? H-how do we stop it?”

Not-Roxanne laughed. 

“Stop what? The essential laws of the universe? Are you familiar with the law of entropy, Eddie? Order always devolves into chaos. From the oceans of time, she rose an architecture of equations to allow for this.” Not-Roxanne gestured at the city. “The clean room always gets messy again. But don’t worry. This decay progresses in terms of geological time, evolutionary epochs, not lifetimes. You need not concern yourself with it.” She paused. “Well, not anymore than you already have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie asked. 

“The one you killed. He was a symptom of this decay. We are all made from her in part, and as her mind…wanders…ours do, also. Some cope better than others. The one you call Pennywise was one of us. He was greatly disturbed by the whisperings of Her diminished mind, and his actions reflected that.” 

“Disturbed? What the hell is that supposed to mean? It—It was one of you? Are you telling me that we cleaned up your mess?” Eddie got up from the table and, in an uncharacteristic moment of lost control, threw the bottle of wine on the table to the ground, where it shattered, spilling plum-colored liquid all over the cream-colored cobblestones. the broken glass and spilled wine remained for a few moments, but quickly blinked into nonexistence, like a corpse in a video game. “We were FUCKING CHILDREN! And we were cleaning up YOUR GODDAMN MESS!”

Not-Roxanne didn’t answer. She just stared at Eddie. The more closely he looked at her, the more he realized that her features weren’t quite right. She couldn’t understand him, he realized. His fear, his love, his desire to return were words in a language she’d forgotten how to speak, if she’d ever spoken it at all. 

“Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?” she asked. “Understand that you are making a choice few people have ever been offered. Consider—” 

“You have to take me back. You don’t understand, Richie needs me—”

“Please listen to me,” Not-Roxanne said. “There are no guarantees. If you—”

“If there’s even a chance I can be together with Richie, I have to try.” 

“Your dossier said you would play it safe.”

“I’ve been playing it safe all my life. Look where that’s got me.” 

Not-Roxanne nodded. 

“Your wish is my command. I can tip the scales in your favor, but the rest is up to you. Capisce?” 

“Just do it.” 

She leaned towards him and placed two fingers on his forehead, driving a spike of pain into his skull. 

“Hold tight,” she said. A muzzy smile hovered around her lips. “There’s going to be some pain.”


	26. Long Into the Darkness Peering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Long into that darkness peering,  
Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,  
Dreaming dreams that no mortal  
Had ever dared to dream before..."  
-Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven." 
> 
> "I dreamed I rolled on the ocean floor  
In the sunken bones of a broken ship  
On the shadow line where whispers creep  
To the world above from the world beneath 
> 
> On waves of silver I dreamed of gold  
'Till I lost the peace that dreaming gives  
I dreamed of the moment of my own death  
That no one ever dreams and lives 
> 
> I dreamed I sailed to the mirrored edge  
Of the murky world for an iron bell  
That dragged me down to the ocean depths  
And rang to mark where my shadow fell 
> 
> I dreamed I slept on the ocean bed  
In a silent grave of silver sand  
And rolled in the sway of an iron bell  
I've heard it said when they go to sea  
On stormy nights you can hear her moan  
She tolls for the mourning of my own death  
And echoes here on the village stones..."  
-Marillion, "The Bell in the Sea," from Season's End

“How do you know my mother?” Marian asked. “Other than that she saved your friend’s life, that is.”

“She…came here, on a case. There were murders…a cycle, every twenty-seven years. I was there the last time it happened. She interviewed me. We…became friends.” 

“Friends? With my mom?” Marian looked skeptical. “It’s nothing personal, just…she isn’t usually the friendly type.”

“Yeah. Well. She was right proper friendly to us. She helped me get everything I wanted.”

They were at the door to Eddie’s room. Marian placed her hand on the door, on top of Richie’s. 

“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “Take a minute. I…know how hard this can be.” 

“I don’t have to. I need to be with him, and he needs me.”

She nodded and stepped aside. 

She was right. It was harder than Richie expected, seeing Eddie attached to all those tubes. He was pale, sweaty, and very, very small in a too-big hospital gown. His eyes weren’t open. They flickered back and forth under bruised, swollen lids. Richie took in a shaky breath. “Okay. All right. I can do this.” 

He pulled up a chair and put a hand to Eddie’s forehead, smoothing back his dirty, bloody, sweaty bangs. “It’s all right, Eds,” he whispered. “Take your time. Not too much, mind ya. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be right here.” 

Marian shifted uncomfortably. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, straightened her skirt, and played with her hair. She cleared her throat.

“You should, uh. Sing. To him.” 

“Sing?” Richie asked. 

“Yeah. Um, when my mom was in the hospital, I would sing these…songs. From when I was a kid. Sea shanties, from the port of Seattle. Do you…well. She said it helped.” She shuffled her feet. “Anyhow. I’ll, uh, leave you alone.” 

Marian left, closing the door behind her. Richie leaned forwards and cleared his throat. He felt self-conscious, like he was talking to himself, but also terrified to say the wrong thing, in case Eddie was listening to him. 

“Oh, don't tell me that it's morning,”  
Can we keep the curtains drawn  
I haven't given you fair warning  
But our ship, she sails at dawn…” Richie sang softly. He took Eddie’s hand in his, using his free hand to smooth the hair off of Eddie’s forehead.  
“And it's true I must be going, but I swear I won't be long  
There isn't that much ocean between Boston and St John's  
But I'm a rover, and I'm bound to sail away  
I'm a rover, can you love me anyway?” 

***  
Paris fell away the moment Not-Roxanne touched Eddie. The sun-drenched promenade dissolved into a terrible darkness. Not-Roxanne was much too close, one arm wrapped around him. 

“Si’yaham’ekukayen-kwenkhos,” she whispered in his ear. One light appeared in the darkness, then another. She spread her arms, walking backwards. “At the bottom of the ocean, even light must die. The silent, sleeping, staring houses of the backwoods always dream. It would be a mercy to tear them down.” The lights shone brightly, but illuminated none of the void. “There is no sharp distinction between the real and the unreal, Edward Kaspbrak. You are a little lamb lost in the dark woods. You will be alone in the end. Look at the stars. They sweep chill currents that make men shiver in the dark.”

“Roxanne?” he asked, voice shaky. “Are you—” 

The stars beamed brighter for a moment, and Eddie saw her hunched over, convulsing. Her proportions were all wrong. She turned towards him, and her eyes shone like rubies in the darkness. 

“Look around. Ny’a shala’thaldwyn. They will all betray you. Flee screaming into the black forest. The drowned god’s heart is black ice. In the land of Ny’alotha there is only sleep. In the sleeping city of Ny’alotha walk only mad things. The void sucks at your soul, Edward. It is content to feast slowly.” She shuddered. “Eddie—I can’t—aah—”

“H-how do I help? What can I do?”

She shook her head. 

“Stay back. Stay back. It’ll pass. Once she--Y'knath k'th'rygg k'yi mrr'ungha gr'mula. Ny’alotha is a city of old, terrible, unnumbered crimes. It is standing right behind you. Do not move. Do not breathe. Sh’kelatha ishnu’alah. Have you had the dream again? A black goat with seven eyes that watches from the outside. It waits. It waits. Chron’a-kai shel’anor. In the sunken city, he lays dreaming. The giant rook watches beneath the dead trees. Nothing breathes beneath its shadow. Beneath the shadow of the darkened spire, there is no light, no mercy, only void, and the chaos within. Atra evaringa ono’varda.” For a moment, the lights winked out completely, plunging them into the dark and the cold. Eddie was in an extremity of terror. If her mind was gone, if the corruption had reached her—

The lights grew bright again, and Not-Roxanne put a hand on his arm. 

He screamed. 

“It’s all right,” she panted. “Just—give me a moment.”

“What the hell was that? You scared the shit out of me!” 

She took his hand and pulled him forwards, towards one of the distant points of light. 

“I already told you. We’re all made from Her in part. When She dreams, we dream with Her. Sometimes those dreams are of…dark, uncharted regions of her creation. Places…unfriendly…to sanity. To anyone but Her. When She was awake, She kept them from us, but now…” Not-Roxanne shook her head. “She thought She could control it. Them. Every day, She becomes less of Her and more of Them. If I had ten thousand years, I could not explain it to you. Come on. We’re close now.” She pointed to a point of light. “That one.”

The closer they got, the more they could see through the little portal. It wasn’t a light—it was more of a tear, a rent in the darkness. Through it, Eddie could see a blurry mess of bright white, a smear of tan, some dark lines, areas of shadow. When they got close, Eddie saw that it was about four feet tall, wavering in and out of focus like a badly tuned television. Through the tear, Eddie could hear someone singing. 

“Do you hear that? Oh—it’s Richie!” Eddie pressed a hand to his mouth, trying desperately to beat back tears. Richie, singing to him, through the veil. “Listen!” 

“And if some suitor comes approaching  
Will you let him through your door  
And what if I return half-broken  
Will you still want me anymore?  
And it's true I must be going, but I swear I won't be long  
There isn't that much ocean between Boston and St John's  
But I'm a rover, and I'm bound to sail away  
I'm a rover, can you love me anyway?  
Close your eyes and dream  
And tell me what you see  
Tell me what you want  
Just tell me that you'll wait for me…”

“Please,” Eddie said. “Please. Send me back. Send me back to him.” 

Not-Roxanne nodded, shoved her hands into the middle of the aperture, and started to pull it open. “Go,” she said. 

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He only turned back for a moment to look at Not-Roxanne’s face. He thought about her, maybe how she’d been, back when she was alive, and how she’d been afraid. Afraid enough to take this job—schlepping souls until the madness took her, condemned to infinite lives, sentenced to always being in the right place at the right time. He wanted to say something to her, but there was nothing to say. Nothing that she could understand, at least. 

He stepped through the tear, and the world dissolved around him.


	27. Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huddled in the safety of a pseudo silk kimono   
Wearing bracelets of smoke, naked of understanding   
Nicotine smears, long, long dried tears, invisible tears   
Safe in my own words, learning from my own words... 
> 
> Huddled in the safety of a pseudo silk kimono   
A morning mare rides, in the starless shutters of my eyes   
The spirit of a misplaced childhood is rising to speak his mind   
To this orphan of heartbreak, disillusioned and scarred   
A refugee..."  
-"Pseudo Silk Kimono," Marillion, from Misplaced Childhood

Eddie’s eyes opened slowly. He felt a little disoriented, but there was no pain. It—

Oh, wait. There it was. 

Eddie hissed as he felt the licks of hot pain shooting up his chest. When he shifted the blanket, he saw a meandering line of sutures zig-zagging across his chest, like stitches on a baseball. He turned his head slightly to see Roxanne sitting in the chair next to him. She was asleep, arms crossed across her chest, head tilted to the left. The lids of her eyes were a bruised purple. Dried blood rusted in the nooks and crannies of her fingernails. 

On the other side, Richie was asleep. His ass was in his chair, but his torso was pitched forwards, lying on the bed. His cheek was resting on top of Eddie’s left hand. Eddie opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was too dry. He winced, rubbing his neck with his free hand. The longer he was awake, the worse he felt. He was hungry, thirsty, sore, and in pain. But…

He poked Richie in the cheek. “Hey,” he croaked. “Get up.”

Richie didn’t wake up, but Roxanne’s eyes fluttered open. She tilted to look at Eddie. Her eyes widened, and she got out of her chair, using Eddie’s IV stand as a support. 

“You’re awake,” she said. Her voice was soft and filled with awe. She smiled. “Richie. Wake up.” When he didn’t move, she raised her voice, not a lot, but enough to free the dagger of her voice from its muzzy velvet shroud. 

“Hrnh? I don’t—oh, my God…” 

Richie raised his head from the bedspread. He looked awful. His glasses were askew, and his cheeks were covered with a few days’ worth of stubble. His eyes looked like cherries, whether it was from sleep deprivation or crying, Eddie couldn’t tell. 

Eddie looked back at Roxanne. She was smiling, but she didn’t look good. The bags under her eyes were a sickly bluish-purple, and her face was pale and drawn. She must have…

“Jesus Christ! What happened to your fucking leg?” 

Roxanne narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “Never mind that. What happened while you were asleep? Did you…how much do you remember?” 

“Remember? Fuck that!” Richie snapped. “Roxanne, get the doctor!” 

“Richie, quit it. Roxanne, when you…have you ever seen something really, really weird?”

She blinked and flicked a quick glance at Richie. 

“Well, yes. That sewer clown.” 

“No, I mean when you were…hurt. Did you ever see…something you couldn’t explain?”

Roxanne sighed and pulled the chair forwards, hunching over and peering towards Eddie. 

“Are you asking if I’ve ever seen a light?” 

Eddie sighed. 

“Yeah. I guess I am.” 

For once, Richie didn’t interrupt. He just watched Eddie closely. When concentrated, the full force of Richie’s attention was intimidating. Eddie still wasn’t used to it. 

“No. I never saw any light, never felt any sense of peace.” Her face was blank, but for a moment, Eddie thought he could see a film of tears shining in her eyes. “I…heard music.” 

“What music?” Richie asked. 

“‘St. Elmo’s Fire,’” she sighed. “The final verse. ‘Just once in his life, a man has his time / And my time is now, I’m coming alive… / I can feel the music playing, I can see the banners flying…’” She shrugged. “Then I woke up in the hospital. I mean, I was probably dreaming. But I always remembered it. Why do you ask?”

“Because I, uh, saw something. Something weird. I was hoping that maybe you could explain it. With brain science.” 

“Well, what did you see?” 

“Paris.”

Roxanne’s brow furrowed. 

“Paris?”

“Yeah. It was…beautiful, but it wasn’t real. It felt like Belle Epoque Paris, not anything present-day. It was, um.” He picked studiously at the bedspread. “Odd. Really, really odd.” 

She shrugged. 

“Maybe the morphine helped.”

The answer didn’t really satisfy Eddie, but he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t told her about Not-Roxanne, or the portals. He especially hadn’t told her about Not-Roxanne’s expositions about God, the multiverse, and the afterlife. He wasn’t ready to say any of that shit out loud. Not yet. Hell, maybe it had been a morphine dream. It felt real, but how real could any of that be? Then he remembered. 

“Hey! Your fucking leg! What the hell?” 

She grunted and waved her hands. “Had it off. Should’ve done it ages ago.”

Eddie sighed. 

“This is my fault, isn’t it? How many people got hurt because they tried to help me?”

Richie scowled and looked away. Roxanne shook her head. 

“I broke my ankle before that. It’s not your fault. And even if it were, it’s all for the best. They never should’ve tried to save it. I never said anything to Rita about it. She was my student. I never wanted her to feel upset about the way this went down. All things considered; she did an extraordinary job. I shouldn’t be alive right now. I’ve lived for far too long, from a statistical point of view.” 

Richie and Eddie looked at each other, lost for words. 

“I mean, what—how on earth do you expect us to respond to a statement like that?” Eddie said, exasperated. 

Roxanne smiled, rolled her eyes, and shrugged. 

“S’not a pity party, Eddie. It’s just the truth. Hell, you’re a risk-assessor for Blue Cross, right? I expect you could pull out the actuarial tables right now, given the proper databases.” 

“The first rule of risk management is that it’s impossible to predict human behavior with absolute certainty,” Eddie said, gingerly pressing the heel of his hand to the gash on his chest. “After all this, though, I’m closer to believing that it’s impossible to predict human behavior at all.” 

Roxanne tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

“What makes you say that?”

Richie furrowed his brow. 

“Do you really have to profile him right now? I mean, honestly—” 

“Richie,” Eddie chastised. He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I guess I’m mostly talking about myself. I never thought I’d have the courage to come back, but I did. I’m not saying that I was brave. It was more like I never had a choice in the matter. I had to come back. I was able to—” He looked down at his hands and saw the dull glitter of his wedding band. It was a little tarnished from the sewer water, marred with nicks and smudges of mud and blood, but it still glittered with a sickly shine that reminded Eddie of costume jewelry. Fool’s gold. “I mean, after all those years, I finally told Richie how I feel about him, Roxanne, and that was the one secret I thought I’d never be able to tell. And I fought. It, I mean. I fought It.”

“You certainly did,” Roxanne observed. She didn’t editorialize further. Her penetrating gaze wasn’t exactly cold, but it did raise the hairs on Richie’s arms. Eddie didn’t seem to mind, though. He was absorbed in plucking at whatever knot of emotions he was trying to untangle.

“I didn’t choose to do that, either. I was in the moment, and I just…reacted, all right? It was like I was in a movie, and the scene had already been scripted and choreographed, and I was just…following stage directions. I knew what would happen.”

“You knew…”

Eddie shook his head and gnawed at his lip. He was breathing hard, pale and sweaty, but he was on the scent of whatever was eating at him.

“No. Not that part. I didn’t know that…if I had, maybe I wouldn’t have…but I want to believe that I would have. But I’m not sure. I didn’t think—no, no. I didn’t.”

“You were willing to give your life,” Roxanne said. Richie wanted to open his mouth and put a stop to this, but he couldn’t breathe past the hideous enormity of that concept. Eddie, dying for—what? So that Richie could live? The very idea of it was grotesque. The idea that he could go back to living in the grayness he had known before his return to Derry was laughable. And the knowledge that Eddie had died for him…the heft of it as a mere possibility was near killing. 

“Maybe,” Eddie croaked. He looked near tears. “I want to have had been. I hope I was. But I can’t know. Not for sure. Maybe I am a coward.”

“You’re wrapped up in intention,” Roxanne said. She leaned forwards, pensive. “But in practice, you almost did. You were willing.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighed. “Can I trust that?”

“You can choose to.” She caught a glimpse of Richie’s face. He didn’t know what she saw in him, but it was enough to make her decide to vacate the area. “I should go.” 

“You should lay down,” Eddie called out after her. 

She ignored him.

“Richie?” Eddie asked. After Roxanne left, all his previous nervous energy deserted him. He slumped back onto the bed, arms extended beside him, palms up. He hoped that Richie would hold his hand, but Richie seemed afraid to touch him. 

Richie was afraid to touch him. He was scared that the hand would just be a mirage, or stone-cold and waxy. His head was full of a long tirade about how reckless Eddie had been, how stupid, how ridiculous his assumption that Richie would give a good goddamn if he ever woke up if it meant that Eddie wouldn’t be there to greet him was, but when he opened his mouth, what came out was a sound somewhere between a shriek and a moan. His wail filled the little cube of a room and made Eddie jump almost out of his skin. It sounded like someone had taken an axe to the tail of a hellhound. 

The fentanyl pump picked that moment to deliver its payload. Groaning in relief, Eddie raised one shaky hand to pat Richie’s head, smoothing his tangled curls back from his sweaty forehead. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, closing his eyes. “Heard that.”


	28. The Long Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.  
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe  
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.   
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.”  
-“Tulips,” Sylvia Plath,

Roxanne didn’t sleep well. The pain wasn’t very bad, at least, not yet. The fentanyl patch kept it well in hand. She couldn’t stop thinking about, well. Everything. The past three days, killing a demon, saving Eddie’s life, losing her leg. She was a woman of science. She believed in the evidence provided by her eyes and ears. There was no way to convince herself that she’d hallucinated the whole thing. But Jesus Christ, how was she supposed to just assimilate this bullshit into her worldview? 

Roxanne groaned and rolled onto her side, folding the pillow in half and shoving it under her head. Whatever. The clown…scientists discovered new species all the time, right? Was it really that X-Files to believe that there might be a low-profile race of superpredators living in the sewers of rural Maine? Maybe not. But then—the…thing. In the cavern. She sighed. The little boy. 

Eddie.

Well, not exactly. She’d never seen a photo of Eddie as a child. Her brain had yanked out her memories of her son from about when he was thirteen, made a few tweaks, and played into her maternal instincts to get her off the ground and back in the fight. Survival instincts. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

So then why did she feel so awful? 

Seeing Eddie—well, her brain’s version of Eddie—had made her think of him as a child. How he must’ve been back then. Scared, but trying to put on a brave face for his friends. Full of a love that he couldn’t understand or explain and could just barely contain. That he had consigned himself, as a little boy, to always answer his mother when she called. She tried to imagine Booker in his place and was almost surprised at the shock of sorrow and rage that flickered through her. She couldn’t even imagine…that fucking woman…

Roxanne screamed into her pillow and slammed a fist into the mattress. In the chair close to the bed, Michelle whuffed and shifted. Oh, right. Yeah. It was personal. She’d been denying it to herself, trying to convince herself that her feelings were professional indignation, nothing more. Then she’d told herself that they were just friends, and that she was trying to take care of them. But it was selfish. It wasn’t about Richie and Eddie. It was about her. 

Michelle gave one of her almost-inaudible groans and stretched. She clicked the light on, and slapped Roxanne’s hands away from her face. 

“What’s the matter? I can hear you thinking,” she signed. 

“I don’t know. Nothing. None of your business. I’m fine.” 

“Yeah. Sure. Pick your cover story. Come on, Roxanne. Will you just tell me what’s going on?” 

Roxanne sighed.

“Nothing. It’s…I’m just sorry I’m such a bitch.”

Michelle raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re telling me this now? You’ve been a bitch for as long as I’ve known you, and you just feel the need to apologize now?”

“When I, uh. Fell. I was…asleep. Under. For a long time. I didn’t see…you. I didn’t see how it affected you. Until now. I mean, seeing Richie like this, it, well, it really made me think. So if you don’t want me mixing with the psychos no more…well, I’ll figure it out.”

Michelle laughed softly. 

“You don’t mean that. You’re just feeling vulnerable. And I appreciate the sentiment. But I think we both know that you need this job. Without it…well, you’d just tear yourself apart.” 

“No, no!” Roxanne scrambled up to a seated position. “Chelle, I’m serious!” 

Michelle pressed a warm hand to Roxanne’s forehead. 

“Uh-huh. Sure. Just rest.” 

Roxanne sighed. 

“Honey…” 

Michelle rolled her eyes. 

“Rosie, look. You worry the hell out of me. But if you didn’t…if you weren’t…well, you wouldn’t be the woman I married. Badass. Fearless. Selfless. Driven. You’ll have to slow down after this. But you won’t stop. Don’t think I don’t understand. This is the job I chose, too. Just rest while you can. All right?” 

“You’re so beautiful,” Roxanne said without thinking. “God, Chelle, you’re so goddamn hot.” 

Michelle’s full, salmon-pink lips curved into a soft smile. Roxanne reached up to drag her fingers through her thick, dark hair. They kissed softly at first, then more deeply. 

“Aaah—” Roxanne gasped. “Chelle—” 

Thirty-four years of being together had made Michelle fluent in Roxanne’s body language. She slipped hand down Roxanne’s hospital-issue pants and found her clit with the pads of her index and middle fingers. She started to circle, lightly at first, then with increasing pressure. When Roxanne started to pant, head tossing from side to side, Michelle started to stroke, hard and fast. It only took a hand on her breast and a deep kiss to push her over the edge. Roxanne shuddered for a moment, gasped, and soaked Michelle’s hand with her juices. Roxanne motioned vaguely at Chelle, inviting her onto the bed, but Chelle waved her off. 

“No. S’okay. I know you’re woozy. Just sleep.” 

“Keep an eye on my dad, all right? N’ Marian, n’ Booker…” She yawned. “…Richie, Eddie…”

Michelle didn’t reply. She just folded her muscular frame into the too-small chair, cracked her neck, and rested her chin on her hand. Two years ago, waiting for Roxanne to wake, or sleep, or die…she would’ve given anything for that offer. Jesus Christ, they had told her that if Roxanne lived, she’d be in a coma. A vegetable. Michelle didn’t know what to hope for. The long sleep, or the long sleep? The chance at averting a similar experience was almost impossible to pass up. But Roxanne was a bird. She was supposed to fly free. Locked in a cage, she’d die. 

In the dim light, she looked at her wife’s face. The glow of the lightbulb cast harsh, ragged shadows on her face, pooling in the large, teardrop-shaped canyon of scar tissue under her left eye. Her sharp, Roman nose was perfectly straight, and her small, perfectly defined mouth was downturned in a soft frown. Her tilted, almandine eyes were closed. 

Michelle kissed her one more time, then got up to check on their kids.


	29. Sickly Albatross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Her lips were red, her looks were free,  
Her locks were yellow as gold,  
Her skin was white as leprosy,  
The Nightmare Life-In-Death was she,  
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.”  
-"Rime of the Ancient Mariner," Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from Lyrical Ballads

Eddie couldn’t move too quickly yet, but he could get up and edge him into the wheelchair next to his bed. He had, however, been caught, and sharply castigated by, a nurse for doing this, so he decided to wait for Roxanne to come to him. It seemed wrong—hell, she’d lost a third of her leg—but she’d seemed to be getting around O.K, and to be completely honest, the stitches still tugged like a bitch. They’d taken out his right lung, but he didn’t feel particularly short of breath. Just…banged up. Richie had been fussing over for him for forty-eight hours without sleep, and he’d finally crashed, face buried in Eddie’s, well, abdomen. Unfortunately, he woke up when the door creaked open, and startled guiltily, like he’d been sleeping on the job. 

“Hey,” Roxanne croaked. 

“Hey,” Eddie answered. Richie rubbed his face on sleeve and waved groggily at her. 

“So, I…they’re shipping me back. To Seattle.” 

“Oh,” Eddie said, feeling ill. He hadn’t expected her to stay forever, but the realization that she was really leaving hit pretty hard. 

“I think you should come with me,” she mumbled. 

Eddie looked up from where he’d been examining his bedspread. She’d spoken quickly, like she was afraid of losing her nerve, so for a moment, he was afraid he’d misheard her. 

“Come again?”

“I. Uh. Think you should. Um. C—”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupted. He could feel his face breaking into an uncontrollable grin, but he couldn’t help it. “Yes. If—”

“Well, I thought with the divorce, you could maybe stay with us for a while, then get an apartment—”

“If Richie can come,” Eddie amended quickly. “But yes. I—I want to go. I don’t want to go—back. Not yet.”

Roxanne looked down and smiled, shaking her head. She was pale and her hair was wild, hanging uncombed around her face, but she seemed relieved. 

“You’re happy,” Richie said. 

She nodded. Roxanne looked a bit embarrassed, but her voice was full of sincerity when she answered.  
“I don’t make many friends. Not in this business. Not with my…reputation. I don’t want—” She cut herself off, shrugged. “I want to help.”

Richie opened his mouth, but Eddie elbowed him. For her, this wasn’t easy. Her pride wouldn’t let her admit that she was afraid of them making tracks. That was fine. It was understood. There would be time for questions later. For now, they would let each other have their dignity. 

“When are you leaving?” Richie asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll get them to approve a transfer to the U.W. I’ll make sure to thank Rita for everything.”

“Please do,” Eddie said. “But she’s not the one who saved my life.”

Roxanne stopped in the doorway, back turned. Richie took in a sharp breath. “It was you,” he continued. “I remember. You didn’t run.” 

She didn’t reply. “Why didn’t you? The place was coming down. Richie is…” Eddie breathed out softly. “…insane. But everyone else left. Why not you?” 

“I didn’t want you die without having a chance to live first,” she replied, so softly that Eddie almost missed it. “I saw…you. I was in a lot of pain, and my brain…I saw a little boy. Like my son, when he was thirteen, fourteen. He was…I couldn’t…”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know. I saw something weird, too.” 

She turned and walked back into the room, taking a seat in Richie’s chair. 

“Paris?” 

He nodded. 

“It was really weird.” He paused. “You were there.”

“Me?” 

“Well, not you. Not really. Just some part of my brain pretending to be you.” A beat. “You had all of your fingers.”

“Now that’s a tell. Why not Richie?” 

“Because she wanted me to let go,” Eddie sighed. “She didn’t want to remind me of what I’d be leaving behind. 

“Let go?” Richie asked, voice caked in that pseudo-calm that Eddie knew only too well as thinly veiled panic. “What do you mean, ‘let go?’” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie said. “I’m still here.” 

“Are you serious—?”

“Relax,” Roxanne said. “What did I say?”

“John Keats. ‘Ode to a Nightingale.’” 

“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,  
To take into the air my quiet breath;  
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
In such an ecstasy!” Roxanne recited. “Darkling I listen. Perhaps the most studied three words in all English literature. ‘Fled is the music: do I wake or sleep?’” 

“Is it—I don’t even know why I’m asking this, since it was just a dream—is that one of your…favorites?” 

Roxanne shrugged. “Not really. I’m more of a ‘Hollow Men’ fan.” 

Eddie felt a bit relieved, but he wasn’t sure why. It hadn’t been her. Who “she” was wasn’t completely clear—a confluence of brain chemicals and electrical signals, a ghost, or a real angel—but the encounter with Not-Roxanne was already getting fuzzy, so the point was probably moot. What was crystal clear, however, was that Richie was looking at him like he was a crazy person. 

“Just the morphine,” he said. “Rich, c’mon. You’re looking at me like you’ve never had a crazy hallucination before.”

“Well, yeah. But the clown was dead. You sure you’re all right?” 

Eddie nodded. “Fine. Roxanne, where do you live?”

“Seattle. Not Bellevue, mind you, Seattle proper. I’ll be dead and buried before I recognize those yuppie assholes as part of my city. I live in the U District, right off the Ave. Not you, though. You’ll be in the UW Medical Center for a while, yet. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.” Roxanne leaned towards the door. “Marian! Eddie, this is my daughter.” 

Marian looked just like her mom. Her hair was shorter, and she was a little softer and curvier, but their faces were nearly identical. She was wearing a soft blue sweater over a white linen skirt, with no makeup. Her face was puffy and tired. 

“Ma.”

“This is my friend Eddie. Why don’t you tell him what you do for a living?” 

Marian’s eyes flicked back and forth, landing first on Eddie, then Richie, then her mother. 

“Why?” 

“Go on. Tell him.”

Marian did a double take and bent down to speak to Roxanne. 

“Mom. He’s gay.”

“Just tell him.”

Marian sighed. 

“I’m a lawyer.”

“What kind?”

“A divorce lawyer. Oh, I get it.” Marian gave a tired smile and shook her head. “I got there eventually. You need someone to cut you loose?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I mean, I can pay you. I can’t—well. You don’t have to—you can refer me, if you don’t want—” 

“It’s up to you. I don’t have a lot of experience. I’m only twenty-six, but I’ve won nineteen of the twenty cases I’ve tried on my own. I can refer you to someone more experienced, if you’d like.” 

“She’s very good,” Roxanne said slyly. “I mean it. If she sucked, I would tell you.” 

“Mom, quit it.” 

“Can we talk? After we get back, I mean. I don’t know what…I don’t know. I want to get divorced, but I can’t deal with her right now. I can’t. I can’t.” 

Richie took his hand and squeezed it. 

“It’s fine. You don’t have to, Eds. Just rest.”

Roxanne nodded. 

“Mare, would you bring me a cup of coffee from the cafeteria?” 

The moment she left, Roxanne shut the door and edged closer to Eddie’s bed. “Look. I hate to bring this up now, but her calls stopped when I was in surgery. I don’t know where she is. If she called my supervisor…” 

Roxanne threw her hands up, and balled one hand into a fist, frustrated. 

“I don’t know what Jack told her. But—”

“She might come. Is that what you’re saying?” Eddie buried his face in his hands. “God, Roxanne, I’m not—I can’t—” 

He sat up in bed, grabbing her arm. Her face was carefully neutral, but her eyes were soft and compassionate. “I said this before, do you understand me? I said I was done before. With my mother. I cannot trust myself to go through with this, you understand me?” 

“Are you asking me to make you?” she asked. 

Richie chewed his lip and frowned.

“Yes. No matter what, I cannot leave with her. Consider it a part of my therapy. Promise me.”

“You know, in real therapy, I’d work with you so that you could do this on your own.” 

“Roxanne. Quit screwing around and promise me. I’m not going back.”

Richie broke in. 

“Eds, you just almost died!”

Eddie turned, completely serious. His face was grave. 

“Going back with her…to my life before…that’s death, Richie, or something so like it I can’t tell the difference." 

“All right. I promise. If I have to arrest you, I will.” She sighed. “I really don’t think it’ll come to that. I’ll give you some time.” 

She rolled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Eddie sighed and closed his eyes. 

“Rich.”

“Hmm?” 

“Will you—will you just, uh—just hold me?” 

Eddie sat up in bed to allow Richie to slide in behind him. He rested against his chest, penned in by his bony knees. Eddie turned his face and pressed his nose into Richie’s shirt, inhaling the scent of Richie’s cologne—patchouli and mint, with Richie’s underlying clean, citrus tang. Eddie felt off-balance, nervous, but the firm bar of Richie’s arm across his chest gave him an anchor. 

“Eds.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you…do you…want this? With me?” 

“Of course I do,” Eddie yawned. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, Eds. If you want to get away from her, it seems like you could do that without me.” 

Eddie struggled back up into an upright position and twisted around to face Richie, stitches pulling painfully. 

“What are you talking about? Richie, I don’t want to do it without you! I love you, I always have. I never wanted this to just be a fling. I want to be with you.” He couldn’t twist around far enough to see Richie’s face. “Rich, talk to me!” 

“I don’t want to be your rebound, Eddie,” Richie said softly. “I want us to make it.” 

“Richie, when I got hurt, all I was thinking about was you. All I could think was that I had so much to lose now. My life was such an awful, soul-killing slog for those twenty-seven years. The minute I saw you again, it was like I came alive again. You could never be a rebound to me, Rich.” 

“Do you promise?” Richie’s voice wobbled, and Eddie could feel him shake. 

_Oh, fuck me,_ Eddie thought. He planted his palms firmly on the bed and rotated so that he was facing Richie. His face was blotchy and red, and he was shaking. He swallowed hard. __

_ _“Eddie, your stitches…”_ _

_ _“Fuck my stitches.” Eddie lunged forwards awkwardly, wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck. “Rich, what’s the matter with you? You know how much I love you, honey. You have to. Please, just tell me why you’re so scared.”_ _

_ _“I loved you,” Richie whimpered. “When we were kids. Then I lost you, and I missed you, and then I found you, and then I just almost lost you again, Eddie! I don’t know how you’re so fucking calm, but I’ve gotten everything I ever wanted and almost lost it—lost you—in two days, Eddie. Two days. You were dying in my arms, Eddie. Dying in my arms—because of me. Because you tried to help me.”_ _

_ _“It wasn’t your fault.”_ _

_ _“No. No. You’re right. It wasn’t my fault. It was Bill’s fault.” _ _

_ _Eddie pulled back, surprised at the venom in Richie’s voice. His face was set in a bitter, angry frown. _ _

_ _“Bill’s fault?” _ _

_ _“This was never our fight, Eddie. He used us as his foot soldier to get his revenge, and then he luh-luh-luh—” _ _

_ _The break in Richie’s voice was almost performance art. Just as he was taking Bill to task, he became him. Richie sobbed and buried his face in Eddie’s chest. When he quieted, and Eddie felt his shoulders stopped shaking, Richie continued, voice muffled and anguished. “He left you to die, Eds,” he wailed.  
Eddie sighed. It didn’t feel good, to be dropped like a hot Pop-Tart on a cold kitchen floor, but the circumstances weren’t exactly typical. It had been twenty-seven years, after all. How could he be sure that he wouldn’t have done the same? _ _

_ _“I’m sure I looked dead,” he said. “S’a miracle I made it, Rich. Real low-percentage play.” _ _

_ _“It doesn’t matter!” Richie shouted. He pulled back, and Eddie was surprised to see that his cheeks were flushed in anger and his mouth was pulled down in a scowl. “It doesn’t matter. Even if—even if—” He shook his head. “I never would’ve left. I never could have left you down there. With—It.” He shook his head firmly. “I never would have left.” _ _

_ _Eddie slipped a hand into Richie’s curls. They were matted and tangled from days without showers or combs, but still thick and beautiful as ever. _ _

_ _“Oh, Rich. I would never want you to throw your life away.” _ _

_ _***_ _

_ _Richie wept. Eddie remembered how much he had hated to cry when they were children. On the day he’d been forced out of the arcade by Bowers, Richie had kept a brave face on, opting to joke with the other Losers instead, until they had retreated to his house. His parents were nowhere to be found. Richie had fetched him a soda and told him that he had to go to the restroom. Eddie followed him upstairs after a few moments, and from the landing, he heard the faint sound of Richie sobbing.  
He pounded on the door. _ _

_ _“Richie? I—I think you should talk to me.”_ _

_ _Behind the door, Richie stirred. Eddie could hear him sniff. _ _

_ _“I know how this feels.”_ _

_ _Still nothing._ _

_ _"Why don't you just come out of there?" _ _

_ _Eddie felt foolish, but he couldn't leave. He needed to see him. For whatever reason, his nerves, his insecurities, some kind of...premonition, he felt like something terrible would happen if he left Richie alone. His eyes burned, and his throat ached. God. Richie, please._ _

_ _“Richie, please.” _ _

_ _Richie opened the door. His eyes were red and swollen. _ _

_ _“Eds,” he said. His voice was tight. _ _

_ _“Shut up,” Eddie said. “Just…come here.”_ _

_ _He wrapped one hand around Richie’s neck, pulling him close. Richie pressed his face into Eddie’s shoulder, stooping down to account for their height difference. Richie’s hands gripped the fabric of Eddie’s shirt tightly. Before Eddie could stop himself, he pressed a kiss to Richie’s sticky, tearstained cheek. _ _

_ _***_ _

_ _Twenty-seven years later, Edward B. Kaspbrak pressed another kiss to Richie Tozier’s cheek and held him tightly as he cried. He was in pain, and he knew it wasn’t the time, but the feeling of Richie’s body pressed against him was starting to wake him up. Richie sniffed, and cleared his throat. _ _

_ _“Eds…?”_ _

_ _Eddie blushed. _ _

_ _“Just ignore me. It, uh, it’s probably just the meds.” _ _

_ _“Hmm,” Richie mused. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “C’mere, beautiful. Will you give me a kiss, make me all better?” _ _

_ _Eddie did. Richie’s lips were a bit chapped, but just as full and lovely as ever. Before returning to Derry, Eddie had been a bit nauseated by the idea of kissing. The exchange of pathogens, the uncertainty of their oral hygiene, bad breath, plaque…his wedding kiss had certainly been an ordeal to get through, nothing more. But kissing Richie was a revelation. Richie held his face tightly between his hands as he kissed him, cradling him like he was something precious. Richie would lick into his mouth, lap at his palate, rub their lips together, knocking the breath out of Eddie and making him swoon. Richie’s thigh rubbed against Eddie’s dick, and he cried out. Richie broke their kiss, pressing their noses together and whispering lowly against Eddie’s lips: _ _

_ _“Hush. We gotta keep it down, right? Nobody can know, can they?” _ _

_ _Eddie whimpered, nodding frantically. He barely noticed the burning of his stitches anymore. He just needed Richie to touch him. Richie held out his hand. “Spit on it for me, sweetheart.” _ _

_ _Eddie spat. Richie reached down and took Eddie’s cock in his spit-slick hand. Richie was stroking him much too slowly and sweetly. Eddie gasped and bit his lip. Richie gently turned him, arranging him so that Eddie’s back was resting against his chest. His head rested on Richie’s shoulder._ _

_ _“Shh. Sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” _ _

_ _***_ _

_ _Marian Little sat on a chair in the waiting room, rolling a pen between her hands. She only looked up when she was approached by a tall, broad man with pecan colored hair and olive skin. _ _

_ _“B,” she said. “How’s Nana?” _ _

_ _“Fine. Worried.” He held out a mug of coffee to his sister. “How are you holding up?” _ _

_ _Marian groaned._ _

_ _“I don’t know how Mom does it. I mean, she’s so damn calm, Booker.”_ _

_ _Booker Little shrugged. _ _

_ _“Hell if I know. I guess she knew what she was getting into.”_ _

_ _“Yeah, well, that’s what she always says. But Jesus, Booker. Her damn leg! And it’s not like Ma’s bothered.”_ _

_ _Booker laughed._ _

_ _“Ma’s indestructible.”_ _

_ _“Until she’s not.” _ _

_ _Booker spat out the sip of coffee he’d just imbibed._ _

_ _“Mare. Don’t say that.”_ _

_ _“Why shouldn’t I?” _ _

_ _“Because it’s—hey! Excuse me, can I help you?” The blond woman in the pink tracksuit was on her way to the Little siblings’ mother’s door. Booker put his mug down and got up. “You can’t go in there!”_ _

_ _The woman turned—very deliberately and nimbly, for such a large woman—to glare at the siblings. _ _

_ _“This woman,” she said, pointing a trembling finger at the door, “has been giving me the runaround for DAYS. She is HIDING my HUSBAND from me.” _ _

_ _Shit, Marian thought. “Well, she’s, uh, she’s sedated right now, which is why you might have had trouble getting ahold of her, but if you describe your husband to my brother, he might be able to help you.” She poked Booker in the back, hard. “I’m gonna go check on her. Booker, help the lady.” _ _

_ _Booker nodded. _ _

_ _Marian slithered through the door to Roxanne’s room and flicked the lights on. Michelle lurched upright, frowning angrily. “Marian, she’s finally asleep! What are you—”_ _

_ _“Mom, I’m sorry, but this is a Threat Level Goose. I repeat, Threat Level Goose.” _ _

_ _Roxanne sat up slowly. _ _

_ _“Why? Whassamatter?” _ _

_ _“The crazy wife is right outside. She’s looking. What do I do?” _ _

_ _Roxanne snarled. _ _

_ _“Oh, God damn it! Okay. In a few seconds, you’re going to turn the lights out and leave this room. You’re going to walk, as calmly as possible, to Eddie’s room and warn him.” Roxanne took hold of the IV taped to her arm and yanked it out. Her monitor started to beep. “I’ll slow her down. Go!” _ _

_ _A nurse was jogging down the hallway as Marian exited the room. _ _

_ _“Is she all right?” she asked. _ _

_ _“Yeah. She needs some help with her IV.”_ _

_ _The nurse nodded, and went in, closing the door behind her. Marian walked down the hall as casually as she could. She felt like she was vibrating. She dove into Eddie’s room the moment she was out of eyesight. _ _

_ _“Hey, you gotta—oh, jeez! Come on!” Marian shielded her eyes with her forearm. “Look, you better stay low, or something. Your wife’s out in the waiting room!”_ _

_ _Richie hastily tugged the blankets up. _ _

_ _“Oh, boy. Sorry about that. Uh, what should we do? Can you keep her away?” _ _

_ _Marian peeked through her fingers, and once she was sure it was safe, she dropped her arm completely. She sighed, crossed her arms, and tapped her foot. “Ma’s delaying her, but she’s motivated. You’re gonna have to figure out how you want to handle this.” _ _

_ _“We’ll stand up to her!” Richie said enthusiastically. “We’ll tell her—”_ _

_ _“What? Are you crazy! She’ll go nuts! You do not want to be in her crosshairs, Rich. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this. Marian, back me up.”_ _

_ _“Do you have any cash?” Marian asked._ _

_ _“Uh…”_ _

_ _“I have a quarter,” Eddie offered. _ _

_ _“That’ll do.” Marian held out her hand to receive the coin. “Ah. North Dakota. Nice. Now you’re my client, and everything we say is privileged. I don’t know that starting a fight is necessarily the way to go, but if you’re going to leave her for Richie, then he’ll get involved eventually. We can delay that, but—” _ _

_ _“Eddie, I want to help, I want to support you! You can’t do this alone!”_ _

_ _“He won’t. I promise. Ma—Roxanne—and my other mother, Michelle—me, we’re going to be there all the way. But it’s up to you how we do this. Whatever you choose, I’ll fight like a Philadelphia Eagles fan after an OT loss to the New England Patriots to make it happen, cap’n. What do you say?” Marian held out a hand for a fist bump.  
Eddie, pale though he was, shivering and nervous, gave a soft smile, and returned the first bump. _ _

_ _“Richie.” _ _

_ _“Hmm?”_ _

_ _“Under the bed.” _ _

_ _“What?!”_ _

_ _Marian giggled. It was the laugh of a young girl. She was young, Eddie thought. Young and full of life. Like how he might have been at her age, had Roxanne been his mother instead of Sonia. _ _

_ _“You heard the man. Hit the deck, lover-boy.”_ _


	30. Sea-Journeys By Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne goes on a midnight voyage to dig into the past, rattling up a ghost in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering."
> 
> \- Nicole Krauss, “The History of Love.”

30  
The heavy footsteps approached the door. Eddie winced, and screwed his eyes shut. Marian tensed. The doorknob rattled…

“Ma’am! Excuse me, ma’am!” 

Eddie gasped, putting a hand to his heart. Marian opened one eye tentatively. 

“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there. Visiting hours are over.” 

“Fuck yeah,” Marian whispered. 

“What do you mean, I can’t go in? I’m his wife!” 

“Our patients need their rest. You’re free to come back tomorrow at noon.”

Their argument, which culminated in the calling of security, faded to a dull roar over a period of three minutes. Marian leaned against the door, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed, spine perfectly straight. Her eyes were closed.

Richie crawled out from under the bed. 

“Is it safe? Is the witch dead?”

“Gone. For now.” Marian opened the door. “Miss?” 

The nurse turned. 

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Really.” 

“Don’t mention it. Your mother paid me $400 to get rid of her. Helluva bargain—in my book, at least.” 

Marian turned to go. 

“You’ll leave for Seattle at eight in the morning—tomorrow. With luck, you’ll slip out before she comes back.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said softly, absently petting Richie’s head, which was pillowed against his stomach. “With luck.”

Roxanne Little couldn’t sleep. It was eight o’clock at night, and her whole family was out cold. Their anxiety had kept them up for almost thirty hours, and they had crashed. Roxanne, however, had slept plenty on the operating table. She was ready to roam. 

She left the house with only a pair of crutches. The cab pulled up fast, and she pointed them back towards Derry. He was put out when she told him her destination, but he was cheered by the hundreds she waved at him. When he dropped her off, she asked him to stay put for the return journey, but her hopes weren’t too high. That was all right. She had promises to keep, and miles to go before she slept.

And miles to go before she slept. 

When she rapped on the door to the Tozier household, she saw a light flick on in the entryway. The door was answered by a tall, skinny woman with brown hair streaked with gray. 

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Roxanne said. She pulled her badge from the breast pocket of her blouse. “I’m Roxanne Little. A friend of your son’s. He’s been the victim of a crime.” 

The moment she heard Richie’s name, Mrs. Tozier had begun to inch the door shut, but she stopped when she saw Roxanne’s identification.

“A crime?” she asked. Incurious. Cold. Languid. 

Roxanne shivered imperceptible.

“He’s all right. He’s in the hospital. There was an attack—just some bumps and bruises. He asked me to pick up some things for him.”

“From here?” Mrs. Tozier asked, making no move to step aside. “Richard hasn’t been here in years.”

“Do you still have his old things?”

“Yes. In his room. I’ve kept everything.” 

“May I come in?” 

She stepped aside, and Roxanne dragged herself over the threshold. Mrs. Tozier eyed the mud on the hem of her skirt and the rusty stains spattering her blouse and skirt with skepticism and disgust, then gasped almost inaudibly when she realized that there was only one boot on the welcome mat. 

“Which room?” she asked, undeterred.

“D-down the hall.”

“Thank you.”

“Please try not to disturb my husband,” she called after her. 

Roxanne pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was screamingly asylum-white. Pale yellow sheets with hospital corners covered the bed. The bookshelves were crammed with books. Smiling, Roxanne stuck a hand under the mattress. From her childhood, she remembered…

Ah. Yes.

She pulled out, from on top of the box spring, three issues of Penthouse. She took the magazines by the spines and shook them. Sheets of lined paper spiraled out onto her lap. She picked one up. 

Dear Eddie, 

I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it: I care about you, and I want you to know that I think you’re really special. Sometimes I think about how maybe if I were a girl or you were a girl how I might like to kiss you. You look like a girl, sometimes. Maybe if…

Roxanne set that one down, smiling, and picked up the next sheet. 

[INT.: RAVENSPURGH CASTLE COURTYARD]

Lord Richard Tennyson, Earl of Northumberland, waits in the courtyard of Ravenspurgh Castle, the holdout of the rebel lords.

RICHARD: The Queen marches ’pon us posthaste, and I  
Wait, with bated breath, for word from the young  
Prince. We march to end her tyranny, ay,  
And ’tis that which brings us here, yet marry,  
’Tis my still-beating heart that hath brought me  
Here. Its sinful, unspoken quivers move my  
Rebellious hand more than my sense of justice.  
Wilt thou, Edward, Prince of Wales, ride to my  
Cause? Flee’est thou from me, O Prince, as thy mother  
Would have thee flee? Dost thou sense my piteous,  
Misadventured overthrows of love and  
Affection? Marry, ’tis true, I should fight  
All the armies of the world, daub these pale  
Cheeks scarlet with the blood of those who would  
Murder us, quench this metal tooth with oceans  
Incarnadine, should only I ask “Dost thou love me?”  
And he say “Ay.” Does thy innocent heart,  
Blameless, marred not by the perversions, which  
Mark mine own soul. In silence will I  
Love thee, sweet Prince, lest I make my sin thine. 

HERALD: Lord Tennyson, a rider approaches!

RICHARD: A herald of the Queen?

HERALD: Nay, good sir. I mark not her ’blazoned sigil, and ’tis no armored rider, my lord. Yon knight wears rough leathers, and carries no banner.

RICHARD (aside): I dare not to hope. (To the herald): Prithee, open yonder gate. 

ENTER EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES.

EDWARD: ’Sblood, I am arrived before her vanguard.  
I beg thy pardon, my lord, for my long absence.  
The Queen’s spies are many, and I would not  
Lead her to thee. Farest thou well, my lord? 

RICHARD: I beg thy pardon, dear Prince. How came I  
To be thy lord? I am thy humble servant.  
I pledge to love thee dearly—

EDWARD: Dost thou mock me, good Northumberland?

RICHARD: How do I mock thee?

EDWARD: Dost thou see my sin, the blemish ’pon my  
Soul, and mock me with thy bawdy quips?

RICHARD: I see no blemish upon thee, my Prince.  
Only upon mine own. 

EDWARD: Dost thou not ponder ’pon wherefore came I here?  
Here, on the eve of battle—

RICHARD: I will win thee thy freedom. 

EDWARD: My freedom matters naught to me without  
Thy love. Thou think’st of love always,  
Yet wilt thou speak of it with me? 

RICHARD: I think only of thee, and of thy love. 

EDWARD: Thou flatterest. 

RICHARD: Only myself, in presuming thy love. 

EDWARD: Thou knowest I love.

RICHARD: Lovest thou me? 

EDWARD: I love thee truly. I love thee forevermore. 

RICHARD: I should love to love thee forevermore. 

EDWARD: Wilt thou?

RICHARD: Ay, ay, a thousand times, ay. I would kiss thee,  
With thy blessing. I would touch thee, with thy leave. 

EDWARD: I love thee. Wilt thou kiss me? 

RICHARD: Have I thy blessing?

EDWARD: Ay. 

Roxanne laughed softly, flipping quickly through the rest. Five acts. Sure, the pentameter was choppy, but it wasn’t bad. A little self-indulgent, but she’d probably been self-indulgent too, at fourteen. 

Mrs. Tozier cleared her throat from behind Roxanne. 

“You found it.”

Roxanne didn’t reply. She gathered the notes together, sweeping them under her arm. She crossed the room to pick up the Norton Anthology of Poetry, Fifth Edition. 

“Do you have children, Miss Little?” 

“Yes.”

“Did you have hopes, when they were born? Did you have…expectations?”

“No.”

“No?”

“They were who they were. I created them, but I didn’t have anything to do with them. I was…a conduit. Content to watch them become who they always wanted to be. My daughter, a lawyer. No boyfriend, no girlfriend, no children. Enjoying her freedom. My son, a young artist, still a child, in all the ways that count. Innocent. Caring. Unspoiled. I wanted to protect them for as long as I could.” She turned, leaning heavily on her crutch. “The world is cruel enough. Why be my child’s first bully?” 

“You think I’m small-minded for being bothered that my son wanted to stick his dick into his friend’s asshole.”

Roxanne gave her a smile on the edge of becoming a sneer and shrugged one shoulder. 

“You have said it.”

Margaret looked at her with unbridled hatred. Roxanne returned her gaze unflinchingly. “I wonder,” she said. “Would you rather your son beat to death a gay man, or be one?”

Let the record show, the lady answers not.

“Well, I suppose I’d best be going, but it won’t be too long,” she said. “There isn’t that much highway between Derry and Lebanon.”

Roxanne called a cab and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon my shitty attempt at iambic pentameter, lol. Comments and kudos are always much appreciated.


	31. Forgiveness (In Progress)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night."  
-Khaled Hosseini, "The Kite Runner."

When Roxanne stepped back into the waiting room, Beverly let out an audible gasp. Her skirt was caked in dried blood, accumulated from when Eddie had laid across her lap. The spatter lanced all the way up across her blouse. Forty-eight hours out, however, and it had dried to a rusty, ochre hue. It looked bad. In most cases, the hospital would’ve burned her bloody clothes, but Roxanne knew she’d want to be up and about as soon as possible, and she’d rather go out in soiled clothes than a hospital gown. Doctors, of course, can be a little odd in that they get desensitized to blood and injury. The pain, suffering, and death that Roxanne saw every day at work had never stopped affecting her, but it never showed in her face—and she hadn’t anticipated the effect her appearance would have on the four friends still waiting for news.   
Roxanne was torn. She knew that Richie wouldn’t want her to send them in. He was pissed. Still. It was understandable, no doubt. She empathized. In fact, she felt deeply uncomfortable acting as the voice of reason, because she knew that she wouldn’t take her own advice under any circumstance, if their rules were reversed. But she was a rigid person, and she had few friends. There were…costs. There always would be. Maybe…

“W-w-well?” the tall one asked. Bill. The man with the psychogenic stutter. The redheaded girl put a hand to her mouth. 

“He’s all right,” Roxanne said. She took a step forwards, and swayed. “I can’t…I need to sit down. Take this.” 

The man with the goatee moved forwards to take her arm, but she waved him off. She pushed the Norton Anthology and the pile of papers into his hands instead. “Room 407. Bring these.” He moved to back off, but she chased him. She grabbed him by the shoulder, digging her hand into the fabric of his shirt, and dragged him down so that he met her eyeline. Someone gasped. “And for the love of God, apologize.”

His eyes slid from her face down to the floor, ashamed. He nodded.

Roxanne loosed him and let him go. 

***

When Marian found her mother, she was in her street clothes, sitting on a plastic chair in the waiting room. Her chin was cupped in the palm of her hand, and she was deep in thought. Marian knew that look. All the lines in her mother’s face were screwed up and tense, and her muscles were rigid. Her mouth was locked in an angry frown. 

“Ma.”

Roxanne jumped. 

“Mare.”

“Where were you?” 

She shook her head. 

“It’s…hmm. It’s like there’s something about this town. Bad. Well…people act like dogs, here.” She coughed and scraped her boot on the ground. “They eat their young.”

“Ma, you’re not making any sense.”

Roxanne twisted her hands in her lap. 

“Marian, was I a bad mother?”

“No, I—no, of course not. Where is this coming from?” 

“Just…tell me.”

Marian sighed. 

“I won’t lie. Sometimes it was hard, with your…reputation. Everyone knew that you were brilliant, a hero…sometimes I was afraid I wouldn’t amount to anything, and I’d just be a…disappointment. I missed you when you were gone. But I loved you.” She sighed, stretched her back, and took a sip of coffee. “God, did I love you. I love you today. I’ll always love you. You’re my mom. You were a good mother. Why?” 

Roxanne shook her head. 

“Bad people doing bad things. The…damage.” 

She got like this sometimes, Marian thought, where she wouldn’t make much sense. She would talk in this strange little language that only Michelle could fully understand, where her sentences would talk around the edges of things, never really approaching them head-on. She assumed it was from years of talking about crime and violence in front of children, using code, never being too explicit, maintaining enough deniability that Booker and Marian would never quite know what was going on. 

Until they did. 

“The damage,” she repeated softly. “Ah. The damage.” 

“Maybe you should go in there,” Marian suggested. “Smooth things over. There’s some tension.”

“That ain’t exactly what I’m known for.”

“Ma.”

Roxanne sighed. 

“All right, all right, all right.” 

***

The sound of conversation was loud as Roxanne pushed the door open. It wasn’t friendly. She bit her lip and entered the room. 

“You fucking RAN!” Richie screamed. “You RAN, and you LEFT HIM TO DIE!”

“That’s not goddamn fair, and you know it!” Ben shouted back. “That place was coming down! Slowing down would’ve killed all of us!” 

“You should’ve been willing to—” 

“—Richie—” 

“BEEN WILLING TO—” 

“Hey!” Roxanne shouted. Her voice cracked through the tiny room like a banshee’s wail. “At ease that shit, all of you!” 

“I don’t believe this!” Richie stormed. “You’re defending—” 

“Enough!” Roxanne snapped, stabbing a finger into his chest. “I was a medic in live-fire zones before your fuckin’ balls dropped; you can’t imagine the things I seen! I trained for this shit! You want to relitigate the past, fine. Fine! But you’re not being helpful. You’re not.” Her face was screamingly pale, save for two sports of pale pink, high up on her collarbones. Richie opened his mouth to argue with her, but he got a glimpse of the fire in her eyes and thought better of it. “Take a walk,” she said. 

“I’m not leaving—”

“Take a walk!” 

“Rich, I’ll be fine,” Eddie said softly. 

Richie scowled at Roxanne. She returned his gaze levelly. 

“There will be time.”

“Yeah? How much?” 

“Take a walk.” 

When he left, the atmosphere in the room improved, but only a little. Roxanne’s hands were on her hips, fingers spread, following the curves of her abdomen. The fabric of her blue skirt was ripped, revealing, through the rends, the satin fabric of her slip. 

“Eddie,” Beverly said. “Does…does it hurt?”

Eddie nodded, his hand creeping up to loosely bunch the fabric of his hospital gown in his fist. 

“Richie’s angry,” he said softly. “Me…I’m just hurt.” 

Roxanne’s eyes flicked around the room, finding plenty of uncomfortable and ashamed faces.

“I hear what Roxanne’s saying,” Eddie continued. “I know that it was an awful situation. I’m not...he is—was—so afraid…” He looked down at his hands. “I thought we were supposed to fight for each other.” 

“A fair point,” Roxanne said. “Do you have an answer for him?” 

“W-w-we—” Bill started.

“There is none,” Ben said. “We’re really sorry, Eddie. We were scared, and we tried to save our own skins instead of helping a friend who needed us. Thank God for Richie. For—” He inclined his head at Roxanne. “Thank you.”

Roxanne shook her head, shoulders hunched. 

“All right,” Eddie said, lifting one hand and extending it to Ben. “So long as you understand that, there can be something. Never what there was before, but something.” 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Roxanne said, angling to leave.

“Roxanne.”

“Hmm?”

“Go find him. Please.”

Dammit, she thought. Fine. The moment she knocked on that car window, she’d signed up for all the emotional tampon-ing involved in rehabilitating two repressed middle-aged gay men. Why stop now? I mean, she had just lost a leg. Why take a break? Miles to go before she slept, and miles to go before she slept. 

***

Richie was sitting on a bench outside the hospital, shredding a long blade of glass. He saw her leg, followed by the metal leg of her crutch, enter into his field of vision. 

“Richie,” she said. 

“They fucking suck, Roxanne. They never cared about him. When he was scared of his mom, who stayed with him? Who hid in his closet all night to make sure she never crossed the line? Bill fucking used him. Me. All of us. I was willing to die to save his life. And the second it gets hairy for Eddie, he nopes the fuck out. It’s bullshit.” 

“Yeah,” Roxanne said, sitting down. “I know.” 

“Then why stand up for them?” 

“Richie, look. Eddie’s in a tight spot right now. He doesn’t want to be the reason you cut off your friends.”

“He wasn’t…there. He didn’t see—” 

“I know,” she said. “I know. You’re right. But you gotta push that down. Give it time. Being right isn’t always the most important thing.” 

“You say that,” Richie mused, “but if it were you, would you be acting any different?” 

“Not on your life,” she answered.


	32. Booking It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...And you can screw a man down  
Until he takes to drinking  
He'll give you all of his money  
You still won't know what he's thinking 
> 
> Take me to the fantastic place  
Keep the rest of my life away  
Take me to the fantastic place  
Keep the rest of my life away 
> 
> Take me to the island  
I'll watch the rain over your shoulder  
The streetlights in the water  
The moment outside of real life 
> 
> I never could dream while I was sleeping  
Put your arms around my soul  
And take it dancing.. 
> 
> Take me to the fantastic place  
Keep the rest of my life away  
Take me to the fantastic place  
Keep the rest of my life away 
> 
> Take me to the island  
I'll watch the rain over your shoulder  
The streetlights on the wet stone  
The moment outside of real life 
> 
> Say you understand me  
And I will leave myself completely  
Forgive me if I stare  
But I can see the island behind your tired, troubled eyes 
> 
> Take me to the island  
I'll tell you all I never told you  
The boy I never showed you  
More than I gave in my life  
Take me by the hand  
You'll either kill me or you'll save me  
Take me to the island  
Show me what might be real life..."  
-"Fantastic Place," Marillion, from Marbles

“Let’s go. We have to move—before she comes back.” Roxanne began hammering the “close door” elevator button while Eddie stirred nervously in his hospital bed, craning to look down the hall. The door finally sighed closed, and the elevator began to bloop as it ascended towards the roof. “The helicopter’s spinning up now. We should be in Seattle by dusk.” 

“Are you still serious about this? You’re willing to…you know…”

“You’ll find an apartment. But until then, you’ll stay with us.” 

Richie grinned. 

“Am I going to be shocked by your house? Do you have, like, mad trial lawyer money?” 

“Kind of. I got $21 million in the settlement from Hopkins after my dissertation advisor tried to eat me. But the house is pretty old. Just another U District split-level. Of course, the others have 17 grad students living together. I try to keep it just decrepit enough to keep bored Madison Park kids from breaking in. Where do you live, Richard? An Isla Vista flophouse next to Dennis Miller?”

“Hey. Don’t even joke about that.” 

Eddie snickered. 

“Oh, I’m sure he’s a fan.” 

“Ugh.” Richie stuck out his tongue and shook his head. “Well, imagine how devastated he’ll be when he finds out the truth. He may never trust again.”

“Good,” Chelle signed. Roxanne grinned and grabbed her hand. 

The elevator binged. So did Richie’s phone. 

“Shit,” he hissed. “She’s on her way up. We’ve got to move.” 

Michelle grabbed Eddie’s wheelchair from behind and started jogging towards the helicopter. Roxanne followed, leaning heavily on Richie. When they finally got inside, the pilot turned to Chelle. 

“Hey! Can you shut the door? Liesl said that we’re on a tight schedule.” 

“Liesl is goddamn right,” Roxanne said. Chelle got up, put her hand on the top of the hatch, and slammed it shut. She was wearing an orange tank top, and her toned biceps were almost confrontationally on show. Roxanne winked at Richie, who lifted one shoulder in an amused shrug. 

Michelle banged on the side of the helicopter. 

“You heard the woman,” Roxanne said. “Let’s get out of here.” 

***  
Four floors beneath them, Myra Kaspbrak let out a bloodcurdling streak, and Magdalene Marian Little grimaced and covered her ears. 

Jeez, she thought. This might be one hell of a trial. 

She popped an Excedrin in her mouth and bit down. Hard.  
***

It was two in the morning, and the UW Medical Center at Montlake was quiet. The occasional nurse or janitor made their way down the hallway, but other than that, all was still. Richie slept in the hospital bed next to Eddie, snoring softly. His head was tipped back, and his glasses were askew. Out of habit, Eddie plucked them off and laid them on the nightstand. He was so damn pretty, Eddie thought. Who knew why he carried himself the way he did, with hunched shoulders and baggy, clashing clothes, trying to fend off criticism by never trying in the first place. He had made a comment to that effect to Bev, years and years ago, and she had laughed, told him that he was the first boy to ever notice something like that. She had phrased it as a compliment, praising him for being observant, as opposed to oblivious, like Richie or Bill, but he had still felt caught out, terrified that someone had caught him paying that much attention to Richie Tozier. He’d always had nice eyes and a kind of gangly, long-legged charm, but as he had grown up, he had developed nice cheekbones and a sharp jawline, and his stubble was really doing some interesting things for Eddie’s body. He was still tall and slender, and his lips were still full and pink, but the feature that had changed the least were his eyes. 

He wanted to let Richie sleep, he really did, but his chest was pounding and tight with some unbearable amalgamation of love and pain and loss and desire, and he had no choice but to kiss him. He raised his arms and wrapped them around Richie’s neck, pulling him close, and pressed his lips to his softly, fervently. Richie moaned softly, and his eyes fluttered open. He pulled Eddie close, still careful of his stitches, even in this sleepy state, and raised a hand to cup Eddie’s cheek, brushing back his hair. When they broke apart, Eddie could see Richie looking at him with an expression of such love and awe that Eddie almost couldn’t bear it. How could he, Eddie Kaspbrak—but then Richie kissed him again, and all thinking ceased. 

“You know, I’m afraid to fall asleep,” Richie said softly. 

“Hmm?” They were chest-to-chest, legs entwined. Richie was still wearing his muddy, bloody shirt and jeans, and Eddie was wearing borrowed scrubs and hospital socks. Eddie wondered how well Richie could see him. Whether he needed to press his fingers to his lips to see if he was smiling or frowning. It didn’t matter, Eddie knew. Richie could tell. Just from his voice. Richie had always been able to tell. 

“Yeah. I’m scared that you won’t be there when I wake up.”

Eddie nodded, then remembered that Richie couldn’t see him. 

“No, it’s—I know. I know. But Rich, I’m not going anywhere.” Eddie coughed, which made him wince. “Did you ever dream about me?”

“All the time,” Richie admitted. “When I…uh, was with women, I would think…I didn’t—couldn’t—but I would see…” 

Eddie kissed him then, hard, because how could he not? 

“So…um…you’re saying I was different?”

Richie flicked his nose, smiling widely. “Of course,” he said. “And you hadn’t before?”

“Oh, har har. Turn around.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Eddie blushed furiously. “Turn around. I’ve got something to tell you, but I won’t be able to if I’m looking at your stupid, ugly face.” 

Richie complied with minimal eye-rolling. 

“You played a show. Once upon a time. In the Village.” 

“Yeah?” 

“At Lutece Liquors.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember that place.” 

“I…found the poster. I…kept it.” 

“Did you jerk off to it?” Richie asked. 

Eddie wrapped his arms around him and pressed his reddening face harder into Richie’s back, declining to answer.

“Oh my God, you did, didn’t you! What?!” Richie turned over, delighted, and grabbed Eddie’s chin, tilting his face up to kiss him, hard. “My blood runs cold / My memory has just been sold! / My angel is the centerfold—” 

“Shut up,” Eddie giggled. “I changed my mind. You suck. Get away.” 

“Aww.” Richie smiled. “So. How does it feel? You know, to have the real deal.” 

“A lot better,” Eddie confessed. 

“Honey,” Richie said softly. He sat up, slinging one leg over Eddie to straddle him. One of Eddie’s hands came down to cup his ass. 

“Do you want me to—”

“Yes,” Eddie whispered, then blushed. “I mean, only if you want to.” 

“I do.” Richie jumped up, hopping on one foot as he tried to pull off his pants. He bent down to untie his Converse.

“Wait,” Eddie said. “Uh. Don’t.”

Richie paused, raising his eyebrows. 

“You want me to keep my shoes on?” 

“They’re…you know…the same. From when we were kids. It makes me…remember.” 

Richie blushed. 

“You paid that much attention to my shitty fashion sense?” 

“I always paid attention to you,” Eddie said. Richie searched his voice for sarcasm, but Eddie was completely sincere. He was laid back on the bed, hands folded tightly across his abdomen, big brown eyes watching Richie’s every move. I’ll never get used to that, Richie thought. The way he looks at me. I wish that I knew what makes him think I’m so special. Once he got his pants and underwear off, Eddie motioned him over. 

“Get the slick. S’in the front packet of my bag.” 

Richie picked up the bottle of lube, feeling a little self-conscious. He tossed it to Eddie, who caught it handily, turning it over in his slender fingers. “And you haven’t before—” 

“Of course not,” Richie huffed. “When would I have ever—” 

“Richie,” Eddie interrupted. 

“Hmm?” 

“Relax.” 

Richie made his way back over to Eddie, straddling him again. Eddie flicked the bottle open, pouring some onto his fingers. “Are you ready?”

Richie nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

With one slicked-up hand, Eddie took gentle hold of Richie’s cock, giving it gentle, teasing squeezes and strokes. His other hand snuck between Richie’s legs, leaving a sticky trail behind as it crept up to rub at his hole. Richie gave a sharp intake of breath and tensed instinctually. 

“Richie.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.” 

He was. But— 

“I’m just thinking about—you know. You remember. How it was. It’s all still in there.” He shook his head. “It’ll pass.” Eddie drummed two fingers against Richie’s entrance, extracting a gasp, then a short moan. “Eds. Please.” 

Richie gasped when Eddie slipped the first finger inside. It felt funny—a little uncomfortable, to be honest, but intimate and…interesting. Eddie’s fingers weren’t as long as his were, but they weren’t that slender, and he felt every inch. Eddie probed him carefully, exploring every inch of him with the smooth pad of his index finger. A particularly firm caress of his cock made him gasp and clench, and clenching made Eddie’s finger brush against something deep inside him. “Shit!” 

“Oh,” Eddie whispered, eyes dark. “I felt that.”

Eddie returned to that little spot with unerring accuracy, flicking the pad of his finger across it over and over again. It was almost too much, pushing Richie to the edge of either coming or crying. It felt good, but not good like having his cock stroked. It was weird, deep and intense and a little unsettling. It would have been nice, if not for the weird thoughts that kept popping up. He never thought that this would happen. He never thought that he would kiss another man. He never thought that he would sleep with another man. But he had, of course. But for whatever weird reason, this was feeling like the point of no return. And he wanted it—God, he wanted it, but these stupid useless thoughts—what his father would say, how much time he had wasted. It hurt—just a little. It tugged. After all those years of pretending, of lying, of hiding in plain sight, it was hard for him to be exposed like this. Vulnerable. 

But then he opened his eyes, which he had screwed shut in reflex, and the feeling receded (though not entirely melting away), because there was Eddie, and no one else, and Eddie was the one person he had never had to worry about abusing his trust or letting him down. Even when they were children, when Richie had dropped his guard just a little, releasing the barrier of lies and quips and false bravado, Eddie had always been serious, and quiet, and looked at him with those big dark eyes, and nodded, and said: 

Yes. Yes. I know, Rich. I know. 

And, unspoken:

I am with you. 

So he reached out, and put his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, and smiled, reaching up to take his hand. 

“Hey.”

Eddie smiled, removing his fingers and pressed the head of his cock against Richie’s hole. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you came back. That might be horrible, and selfish, but I—” 

Eddie squeezed his hand and grinned. 

“I’m glad I came, too.”

“Even with—” Richie gestured at the stitches, then hissed as Eddie started to push in

“Yeah. Even with.” Eddie giggled. “Just breathe, Rich. You’re so tense.” 

“Well—uhh—what do you expect? I’ve never taken a cock before!” 

“Hmm,” Eddie whispered, moving in close to wrap his arms around Richie. Richie felt him nuzzle and kiss along his neck, then gasped as he felt him nip at his ear. “I just want to—yes, I want to stay here. Just for a while.” 

***

“Roxanne Little? I’m not surprised. She’s the reason I quit the Bureau.” Alan Bloom shook his head and shifted in his seat. “Nobody thinks like she does. Her mind is a maze. She’s brilliant. The only problem is that she’s belligerently insane.” 

Myra Kaspbrak nodded. 

“So you think she could be—” 

“I won’t make any speculations as to her motivations. She’s married to a woman, but that doesn’t mean anything. If she’s been stonewalling you, it’s probably because she had some idea…she tends to get these ideas, and when she does, it doesn’t matter who gets in her way.” 

“He’s…suggestible,” Myra said. “I’m concerned that she could…influence him. Against me. I’m looking for someone who will help me bring him home. Will you help?” 

Alan sat forwards and took her hand. 

“I’ll be with you. Don’t worry. We’ll get your husband back. And I think I know where to look. Roxanne operates out of the University of Washington when she’s not on a case. If he’s in a hospital, dollars to donuts, that’s where she’s keeping him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Currently booted out of my university because of coronavirus, so I'll have a lot of time on my hands...ugh. Anyways, highly recommend the live version of "Fantastic Place" from the Marbles in the Park live album on Spotify. It's one of my favorite Reddie songs.


	33. Belief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The days before you came  
Were really all the same  
A greyness I used to call freedom  
Endless nights out with the boys  
The boasting and the noise  
To think that I ever believed them 
> 
> No one can take you away from me now  
Don't worry if they take me away  
No one can take you away from me now  
Don't matter how long we have to wait..."  
\- "No One Can," Marillion, from Out of the Box

Roxanne’s living room was full of antique furniture, threadbare throw rugs, and colorful art. Richie wasn’t sure what paintings he had expected to see on her walls, but stylized female personifications of astrological signs and woo-woo witchy-pagan prints weren’t it. Maybe some harsh abstract prints, or some colorful inkblots, he thought. But this was kind of charming. A softer side of her, maybe. 

“Ah,” Chelle signed. “You’re eyeing my oils, I see. When’s your birthday?” 

“Uh, December 14th,” Eddie said. 

“Ah, a Sagittarius,” Chelle signed. “The most ethereal of the fire signs. Their spark is delicate and easy to dim, but nearly impossible to fully extinguish. The archer—an elusive warrior, but a deadly one. And December 14th, that would make you the Queen of Pentacles—Water of Earth. Pragmatic. Creative. Loving. Generous.” 

Eddie smiled. “I had no idea you were so into astrology.”

“Oh, it’s silly, of course, but isn’t it lovely to have something harmless and fun to believe in?”

Eddie smiled. 

“Yeah.”

“You probably want to know why I asked you over here.”

“I figured you’d tell me soon enough. Honestly, it’s nice to be able to spend a little time with you, outside of all the craziness. I thought about what you said.” 

Michelle nodded at him to continue. 

“When you said that we were the ones who sit and listen…it was true. When I see you, I see someone who’s comfortable in her relationship, in her sexuality, and I want you to show me how to do it. I mean, you did it when it was, hard, right? You did it when it was dangerous.” He winced. “When I was still hiding.” 

“It’s not a competition, Eddie. A lot of things went right for me that went wrong for you.” 

“I have to make up for lost time,” Eddie argued. “This is it for me, Michelle. But Myra—I don’t know if I’m ready. She’s going to absolutely lose it, and I’m so scared of what she’ll put Richie through. What if he loses his job, or this gets all over the internet?”

“After killing a demon, you’re worried about this?” she asked. 

The question stopped Eddie cold. It did seem silly, now that he thought about it. But he’d stood up to Pennywise twice. He’d only stood up to his mother once. And that had been temporary. 

“She made you a promise, Eddie. You won’t go back. We’ll help you.” 

“I trust you,” Eddie said. “But I don’t trust myself. If I don’t fix whatever’s broken inside of me, whatever made me go back, then all of this help that you’ve given me was for nothing.” 

“Nothing’s for nothing,” Chelle said. “Come with me. First trip out of the hospital. There’s something I want to show you.” 

Eddie’s stiches were throbbing by the time they walked the two blocks to Cowen Park, but he was happy to be breathing the fresh air and stretching his legs. The park was full of dogs and kids. Michelle smiled as she leaned up against the big steel sundial in the middle of the park.

“Eddie, come here,” she signed. 

He came. She pointed at a little statue of a tadpole hiding in the grass. “Look.”

There were four of them, each showing a stage in the life cycle of the frog. “We used to take the kids here, when they were little. I cracked my skull open on that bar over there while I was playing tag with my son. My kids loved these statues. When I see them, they always make me get a little misty, because, they remind me that everything changes. Everyone grows. Life is a cycle. They remind me that there will come a time when all of this is over, and something else will grow and take its place.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Eddie asked. 

“Because there’s a world out there, for you to discover,” she signed. “Let the past pass. The future is so beautiful, Eddie. The open road is infinitely hopeful. Every day is an open door. Take all those memories and throw them in the fire. Please don’t let the past haunt you. After what you’ve been through, you deserve a clean start.” 

“How can I wash away the mistakes I’ve made? The time I’ve wasted?”

“You don’t. You just have to learn to live with it. Look, Eddie, nobody deserves what you’ve been through. You got dealt a bad hand. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep playing it.” She gestured around her. “You’re focusing on all of your bad yesterdays. The worry lines are getting deeper every day, as you torture yourself with what’s behind you, what awaits you, dragging that guilt and regret inside you, anxious of the goals that always evade you—” She pointed at him, face serious. “Your mind will find a way to be unkind to you somehow, but all we really have is the here and now. When I had my kids, Eddie, I understood. Holding them, a brand new life, in my arms—a beautiful human sunrise, full of untapped, untainted potential—I believe that that lives inside each and every one of us. You have look at the world like you’ve never seen it before, try and forget it, so that you can see it. Love him like you’ve never fallen in love before, love him like you’ve never been with him before, so you’ll always remember it.” 

Eddie took in a deep breath, smelling the green of the trees, the damp richness of the dirt, the slight tang of gasoline from the road. He heard the laughter from the playground, and the soft rhythm of his own breath. “It is different,” he admitted. “I walked around, before, but my head was down. I wasn’t paying attention. But now, I see it. There’s so much I want to do.” He gave her a shy smile. “With him.”

“Tell me.”

“I want to go on hikes in national parks, museums, walking tours…I want to go to Paris, Michelle.” He laughed and shook his head. “Paris, London, and San Fran, right? God. God, I want to live!” 

She grinned. “It might be awhile before you’re cleared to fly. Think you can wait?” 

“I’ve waited for twenty-seven years,” Eddie said. “I can wait for a little longer.” He shifted a little, rubbing his arms. “Michelle, do you think I’m too old to have kids?”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m just bullshitting, you know, just…curious. Do you think—”

“No,” she signed, smiling. “You’re not too old. Your life is just beginning.” 

*** 

Eddie thought that Roxanne would be looser than Dartmouth in terms of making him stay in bed, especially considering that she was hiking around on crutches four days after having her leg amputated, but as it turned out, that was very much a “rules for thee, but not for me” type of situation. She’d kept him out of the hospital, but Eddie was mostly stuck in the queen-size bed in the guest bedroom on the second floor, propped up on some pillows, watching TV, e-mailing in sick to work on his laptop, or chatting and playing cards with somebody. Richie still wasn’t willing to fuck him yet—he wanted to wait until the stitches were out—but it was truly scary how fast he had gotten addicted to being able to move against Richie’s body, feel Richie’s hand or mouth wrapped tight around his cock, or being able to wrap his lips around Richie, listening to him groan, sob, feeling his hands card through his hair, stroke his face—

Jimmy Fallon appeared on the TV, and Eddie groaned, casting around for the remote. Shit—the batteries! 

Am I really going to just sit here and watch Dennis Miller on The Tonight Show? Eddie thought. He considered throwing the remote at the TV, but he really didn’t want to break Roxanne’s property. So he just picked up his laptop and noodled away on a work report for a while, until—

“I mean, the political correctness machine is just out of control, Jimmy. Look at Richie Tozier.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathed. “RICHIE! GET THE FUCK UP HERE!” 

Richie crashed through the doorway first, breathing hard, one hand on his chest. 

“Wh-what’s wrong? Are you—” 

“Just fucking listen!” He pointed at the screen. 

“I mean, what the hell happened to Richie Tozier, Jimmy? That guy was funny! But he wasn’t politically correct, so he’s just—gone! Disappeared!” 

“Yeah, that’s—that’s wild. What do you think—”

“What do I think happened? Hillary Clinton happened!” 

Richie tsked in disgust. 

“Fake laughter. Even for Fallon, that’s obvious. Gross.” 

“No, no, I jest. Don’t kill me! I mean, come on. Disappearing in the middle of a tour? I mean, I’m worried for his safety! Unless he’s shacked up with some chick!” 

Richie smiled softly, gently. He bent down and pressed his lips to Eddie’s temple, entwining their fingers. “Eddie.” 

“Hmm?” 

“I love you.” 

They kissed hard, Eddie sealing his lips over Richie’s firmly, hungrily, his fingers bunched in Richie’s shirt for purchase. Eddie pulled him down, hard enough that Richie had to scramble and twist to avoid falling on his face. Eddie laughed in delight at Richie’s expression, then swallowed hard as it shifted from surprise to awe. Richie cupped the back of his head softly, kissing him deeply, gently. When they broke away, Eddie moaned softly—a reflex, involuntary. Richie laughed gently. 

“I don’t care what they say,” he said, quietly enough that Eddie knew he meant it, loudly enough that it felt real. “You’re all I believe in. Everything I ever loved before, I loved because it reminded me of you.” 

Eddie kissed him again, because what could you say to that? Well.

“Fuck me,” he whispered. “Richie, please.” 

Richie’s face, plastic and expressive as ever, went through the five stages of grief. 

“Eddie, I can’t—I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t. Please. Ever since we left Derry, I’ve healed so fast—it hardly hurts anymore, Rich, honest, and I—I need you…”

That was cheating, and Eddie damn well knew it, but he was sick of waiting around. They’d wasted enough time. 

“Oh, Richie, please,” he whimpered, pitching his voice a little smoother, a bit more sultry. “Won’t you take care of me?” 

“Hush,” Richie said. “Roll over onto your side.” 

Eddie complied, a bit confused. He barked a note of surprise when Richie whisked the blanket off him and yanked down his pajama pants, but purred assent when he heard the drawer of the nightstand open, and felt Richie’s hands on his hips. For whatever reason, Richie couldn’t get enough of him—of his body. It was a new, fragile thing for Eddie Kaspbrak, to be desired, and he couldn’t quite trust it yet, but there was no mistaking the quiver in Richie’s breath when Eddie bent at the waist, or the way his hand traced the curve of his spine reverently, or the way Eddie would catch Richie just staring at him, eyes tracing the curves of his face, lingering on his collarbones, fixating on his waist, ass, thighs. What made Richie Tozier decide he was worthy of that kind of attention, he’d never know, but—

The prep was quicker than he expected, but it was just what he wanted. He felt every inch of Richie inside of him. The sensation of being forced to accommodate, of stretching, sensitive flesh giving way—it sparked across his nerve endings, up his spine, and radiated through his body. He reached behind him, blindly searching for Richie’s back, arm, anything, and found the fabric of his shirt. Richie hadn’t even bothered to take his clothes off to fuck him. The thought was odd, but undeniably hot. Like Eddie’s greedy desire was just a chore, that he would satisfy him, button up, and go about his business, leaving Eddie lounging, well-fucked, replete and sated—

Eddie had loosened up enough for Richie to be able to fuck him harder, and now he was crying out on every thrust in. He was close, so close, and Richie still hadn’t spoken, but maybe he didn’t need to speak, because his hands were on Eddie, one arm tight across his chest, the other hand gripping his thigh like he owned it, owned him, and shit, shit, shit! 

When he came back to himself, he was clean, and Richie was holding him close, whispering nonsense in his ear and stroking his ear. Eddie yawned into his chest and stretched a bit.

“Hey, there you are. Shit, babe, I didn’t break you, did I?” Richie asked. 

Eddie poked Richie in the gut, making him yelp.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he admonished. 

“Hmm,” Richie pondered. “You say that now, but not fifteen minutes ago, you neeeeeeeeded me to take care of you. So what is the truth?”

“Shut up! Sex talk is off the record! I don’t bring up all that weird wedding-planning shit you said back in Derry!” 

“You just did!” 

“I was provoked!” Eddie yawned, and buried his face in Richie’s chest. “You just…stay here. I’m gonna sleep.” 

“So I’m trapped. I can’t move. I just have to sit here and…wait for death?” 

Eddie smiled, but didn’t take the bait. They both knew damn well that there was nowhere else Richie Tozier would want to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't check my tumblr anymore, but you can slide into my dms @dis_comrade if you want to throw an anxious creative-type a bone. The intro quote comes from here:  
Marillion, “The Leavers V: One Tonight,” Fuck Everyone and Run, perf. Steve Hogarth, Steve  
Rothery, Mark Kelly, Ian Mosely, and Pete Trewavas. Intact Records (Zurich, 2016).  
https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=marillion+the++leavers&docid=608000332635242891&mid=43B62DCBF6002222941543B62DCBF60022229415&view=detail&FORM=VRAASM


End file.
